


FALCON & BUCKY™

by Machinebender



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Alcoholism, Fake Dating, Fake Relationship, Grief, Lewis Tan as Danny Ran, M/M, Memory Alteration, Multi, Riley Angst, Romani Wanda Maximoff, Salt, Survivor Guilt, Various Marvel cameos and side pairings, canon-typical violence/trauma, corporate sponsored superheroes, implications of contracted superheroes and state violence, institutional bigotry, mention of past minor character deaths, nonbinary T'Challa, parenting, superhero contest reality tv show, the plot of Tiger & Bunny with Marvel characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12441444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machinebender/pseuds/Machinebender
Summary: In the megacity of Sternbild, corporate-sponsored superheroes compete on live reality TV show MARVEL LIVE®. By saving civilians, nabbing criminals, and through viewer voting, each Hero™ vies to become the reigning Marvel Champion™.Sam Wilson, aka veteran Hero Falcon™, juggles his dangerous job with grief-fueled alcoholism and a fraying relationship with his young daughter. But when the Falcon's IP rights are suddenly picked up by a new sponsor, Wilson is partnered with a rookie Hero: enigmatic hotshot James Buchanan Barnes. The two have nothing in common save for their superpowers, and a rocky relationship ensues.As Wilson and Barnes reluctantly learn more about each other, they in turn stumble upon a conspiracy that will rock the entire glimmering world of superheroes—and supervillains—to its core.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! This crossover fic stars Marvel characters in the retrofuturistic late-1970s setting and plot of Tiger & Bunny (2011), but **you do not need to have seen that anime series to enjoy this work.**  
>  Brand names were included in this work by the author solely to foster a realistic yet nonetheless fictional setting. The opinions expressed herein do not necessarily reflect that of any of these branded entities. No compensation was offered, requested, granted, or received for inclusion in this work.  
> All Twitter handles appearing in this work are fabrications of the author and are attributed to persons herein who are wholly fictitious, being properties of Marvel or Sunrise, respectively. Any resemblance to the Twitter handles or names of real life persons is coincidental and also tragic.

  **EP 1: PILOT**

_“—from out of nowhere! What a catch! And here’s the replay now—this might just be one for the books—goodness, would you look at that—”_

“Shit,” Clint grumbles from the bar stool next to Sam’s. He gives the staticky screen looming before them a dejected squint. “Now I owe Nat fifty.”

“Thought you owed her fifty last weekend.” Sam crumples his empty can with a feather-light squeeze and motions to Dugan for another round. The hunk of aluminum joins its predecessors, a jagged line of eight.

“Oh. Yeah.” Clint kneads his eyelids. “Laura’s gonna flay me.”

Sam has almost run out of things to look at that aren't the damn television. At the moment he's eyeing Dugan’s ancient grandfather clock as it strikes ten behind the bar. Its chime no longer functions, so time passes without ceremony. Only the din of the ratty sports bar around them—a hubbub of slurred exclamations, thudding glasses, and the televisions’ syncopated droning—rings in the hour.

Sam knows, without having to check his red-trimmed wristcomm, that Dugan has forgotten to adjust the thing for daylight savings.

“So?” he shoots the alter ego of Hawkeye™ a saucy grin. “’S it seventy, now? Eighty?”

“Ninety. Cap never goes for a takedown that early. Or, uh. Not a whole lot.” Clint adjusts his left hearing aid as a table behind them erupts in protest at the show. “Odds were in the forties. Don’t you go in tomorrow, Wilson? It’s already ten.”

“It's already eleven. That clock is a menace to society.” Sam slides Dugan a Stern Dollar in exchange for the fresh can. “But call isn’t til noon—which, I might add, you’re supposed to know already.”

“Well, I’m—" Clint seems to catch himself. "I'm not memorizing that crap when I can just check my comm. Or my phone. You know, like a normal person, not some lo-tech fetish—”

“Normal people keep running bets on bank heists?” Sam sips his drink.

Clint sniffs. “You got nothing planned for tomorrow night, though?” Possibly the smoothest subject change he’s executed to date. “Anybody coming down for the ceremony?”

Sam shakes his head. “My mom hates traveling nowadays. Back when—” He stops cold, nearly having uttered Riley’s name aloud, nearly having knocked his can to the floor, nearly having retched three liters of poison onto the worn oaken surface beneath his elbows. His throat sears. “—when, uh, when Rila was a baby, uh, it was easier.” He pounds his knuckles into his chest, once, twice. Useless. “Not so much now.”

“I get that.” Clint would. “Used to love the Crowning, y’know? But every year it just becomes a bigger pain in the ass.”

“Amen to that.” A wallet skids across the bar as Methuselah’s babysitter nabs the open stool on Clint's other side. “Espolón blanco, big man,” Col. James Rupert Rhodes rasps. “And don’t make me beg for a double.” He hits a button on his powered leg braces and lets out a breath as they adjust.

“That bad, huh?” If today's shenanigans weren’t literally Sam’s business, he’d go on minding his own.

“Hey, Rhodey,” Clint snickers, “what good's being able to fly if you can’t fly away from your problems?”

“Bite me.” Rhodey gives Sam’s trash trail an unsparing once-over. “And what gives, Wilson? I thought you only camped out in the summertime.”

“It’s warm out.” Sam minds his own damn business.

Something tells him that Dugan left the cans out on purpose. Dugan's precisely that type of fellow. He hasn't given up completely like Jacob or Luke, but neither has he cut Sam off.

Still, there’s no need to add his perpetual sludge to Rhodey’s work-induced melancholy. Sam clinks his can against the salted rim of Rhodey's shotglass and gives his professional rival a quick, beleaguered smile.

Once upon a time—four years past, to be precise—smiling is all Sam does. Real smiling, in ten thousand unbeleagured watts of life-giving, world-healing beauty. His PR and Branding teams worship the ground he walks on; you can’t manufacture charm, not the kind the Falcon™ so effortlessly exudes, and his Hero™ name trends nationally more often than not. Everyone from the NRA to Andrew Christian wants the Falcon as their spokesman. Villains beg the other Heroes to hold off so Falcon can nab them instead.

And then there are the _fans_. To his throngs of fervent followers, the Falcon is at once the beginning and the end and the second coming. When he speaks, an angel gets its wings and the moon glows doubly bright. But when he smiles, oh! when he smiles! Flowers bloom, whole fields of them blasting up through the concrete like the landmines of old. There’s video.

But that show had been canceled abruptly enough. If a second season had since aired, then Sam is stuck watching the wrong channel.

“Today was my last shot at breaking top three,” Rhodey softly concedes. “Fifty-one point margin, even if I get a hundred K more votes by tomorrow night.” He tosses back a second shot and sucks on one of the lime wedges Dugan had slid him on a chopping board. “'Nother year o’ wine ‘n roshesh fo’ Janet.”

“Oh, boo hoo.” Clint slams his empty mug down. “You wanna gripe about your ranking, maybe pick an audience other than the chronic losers. Hey, Dugan, hit me. One more pint. Yeah.”

Sam winces. With Rhodey in fourth, that all but locks Wanda in at fifth and, barring one epic Hail Mary, Monica in sixth, leaving the usual photo-finish between Steve and T'Challa for the crown. The meager solace of _not last place_ had grown wearisome to Sam two seasons ago, and Clint doesn’t even have that tiny consolation. “Wish I could just watch this year’s Crowning instead of being in it.”

“I’ll tell you how it is next year,” Clint laughs. “Snap your ass from the front row.” And then he freezes. “Uh. I mean—”

“You’re leaving the show?” Sam nearly drops his can again. _No. No way._ That can’t be right.

Rhodey has slightly more wits about him. “Did you resign? Piss off a sponsor?”

“Retiring,” Clint sighs, setting down his mug. “Yeah, might as well come clean, at least with you two. They’re announcing it at the ceremony tomorrow night, but please tell me you won’t spread any of this. Please.”

“That actually would get you fired,” Rhodey affirms with a grimace. “I can see ‘em redrawing your whole contract back up just to shred it.” But he brightens up instantly. “No, no, man, congratulations! What’s it gonna be? Gardening? Scrapbooking? Golf?”

“Fuck off,” Clint snorts, but his grin resurfaces quickly enough. “Heh, well, that last one’s a maybe. We all got together, me and the sponsors and the president, and, eh, decided this was the best time to go about it. I don’t get to see Laura enough, and Cooper just started high school.” He shrugs. “Besides, _someone_ ’s gotta sit at the kitchen table, polish the longbow, and ask Lyla’s date how he'd define ‘punctuality…'”

Now that Sam thinks about it, Clint had made it onto the roster long before anyone else in the current lineup, even Rogers. The true veteran, renowned for his slick trick shots and half-baked soliloquies before the Hero Academy™ had even been founded. Had that really been so long ago? Had it?

“When’d you tell your boss you wanted to retire?” Rhodey asks. “They would’ve had to prep up the top-ranking trainee at the school, yeah? Then throw the sponsorship circus and all that.”

Clint laughs through his nose. “Eh, yeah. That’s the other half of it. Let’s just say the producers were the ones who pitched retiring to me, instead of vice-versa. My guess is there’s some rookie ready to graduate that they want to start pushing ASAP.”

“That’s not contract abuse.” Sam finishes his beer and motions to close his tab. He can’t sit in this place any longer. “Not one bit. Nope.”

“You know how it is,” Rhodey murmurs behind a side-eye. “My kingdom for a cheap ratings boost. Good thing you were on board with it, Barton, ‘s all I can say.”

“Exactly,” Clint mutters into his beerstein. “But you never know who’ll be next. Meet your quotas, alright?”

“Preaching. Choir.” After paying Dugan, Sam lurches to his feet and claps Clint’s shoulder. The floor isn’t spinning, not this time, albeit more likely due to luck than planning. “Still, though. Good for you, man. I know you miss your family.”

Sam uses the word _know_ solely for Clint's benefit. It's too sterile, too simple, and much too calm a word to be remotely accurate. It cannot begin to encompass what glistening fairy tales Sam hallucinates every night before he passes out, or what slivering whispers caress his skin each morning before the gash in his heart inevitably reopens.

But for a split-second, a burst of his old persona returns, flooding his arteries and painfully yanking the corners of his mouth apart. “And I’d better not find out you play over par eighteen! Hear?”

“Pfft." Clint's eyes flicker across him, back and forth, as though in search of some last-ditch hint from a teleprompter. Sam's got nothing for him. When has he ever? "Have some faith.”

Rhodey shoots him a wary frown. “Heading home already, Samuel? You had me thinking the night was young.”

Sam lifts the strap of his courier bag over his shoulder, purposefully avoiding their gazes. That shot of energy has already drained from his bloodstream, and his next exclamation uses up the last of his stamina. “Something here has to be!”

“Oh, _come on_ —” That the response is both of theirs at once nearly lightens Sam's mood before he steps out, into the iridescent night.

What must be understood first and foremost about the megacity of Sternbild is its cataclysmic origin story, simplified for your convenience into the following montage: the 1949 energy plant meltdown in The Middle of God Damn Nowhere, USA; its shimmering aqua dome of a blast radius, dissolving to leave a massive crater in its wake; the plant’s wreckage collapsing into dust at the crater's lowest point; and the curious superhuman abilities befalling the thousands trapped there, in the wrongest of places and times.

Befalling, or blessing, but in all cases: Notable Entities with eXtraordinary Talents™.

Sam has thought about looking up the origin of the term for about thirty years now. Was it the result of a painstaking focus group-tested marketing campaign, or a tongue-in-cheek nickname that had happened to stick? Yet each time he considers typing those four earth-shattering letters into a query box, his brain assures him that he does not, in fact, truly need to know right now.

But if Sam had to guess, he’d say Sternbild had termed the NEXT for their own bio-eng study.

Sternbild had started as a corporation, a privately-held engineering firm. Not the energy plant that had melted down, either; Sternbild had instead been the first response team to reach the mysterious blast’s Ground Zero.

Immediately, Sternbild’s researchers and rescuers had arrived in droves, in their logo-emblazoned haz-mat suits, equipped with all manner of sensors and scanners and radiation-proof modular housing kits. Legends say even the USNRC had had to negotiate with Sternbild to gain working access to the site.

But even stranger than the esoteric cause of the plant's meltdown were its many, many survivors.

The campus’ nineteen casualties had been crushed to death. But from the heat of the blast, zero. From radiation poisoning, zero. From bleeding out, _zero._ Rather, they each emerged from the rubble stronger and healthier than they'd been going in. Some discovered their further and stranger powers the hard way; others could intuit it within them, whatever it was, that gift of the blue glow.

No matter what that aqua dome had been, exactly, its effects were wholly unprecedented. The presses and social media alike obligatorily went apeshit. A hoax? A science fiction novel come to life? Evidence of first contact with hostile aliens? Whatever would sell.

As for Sternbild, the first responder camp quickly grew into an eclectic village of prefabs and state-of-the-art laboratories, then to a bustling tourist attraction (for both the disaster memorial and the paranormal marvel of it all), and by 1951 into an incorporated township. Then Sternbild had diversified, namely into city planning.

Hundreds of architects were poached from Dubai and Taiwan and London, thousands of civil engineers baited in with actual money and once-in-a-lifetime project proposals, and just as many construction companies contracted out from across middle America. Sizeable populations from the sleepy towns in every direction inevitably tagged along, hungry for change after a decades-long recession.

Within mere months, the city of Sternbild had sprung, fully-formed, from the ashes of America’s least plausible disaster zone.

The sparkling towers before and behind Sam extend as far toward the heavens as they plummet into the hole in the world beneath his feet. Intracity highways, elevated trains, and greenspace-dotted walkways stretch between the towers like dew-dappled spiderwebs. Commuters generally refrain from looking down for fear of sudden vertigo.

Sam's walk home from Dugan’s would be a short one, provided he chose the quickest route: a garden-lined pedestrian walkway bridging high over the eight-laned ICH2. The skyway level’s coffee shops, gyms and corner stores usually receive customers around the clock. Sam would be home in eight minutes if he felt like he could tolerate seeing other humans right now.

Instead he wanders on shuffling feet between utility towers and warehouses, through unlit alleyways and across empty car lots. The late spring breeze sends loose litter skidding across his path like unsexy tumbleweeds.

Still, Sam's earbuds are in and he’s got his favorite playlist going. Okay, one of his favorites. Definitely one of his top eighteen absolute most favorites. This one Riley had put together for him as a Valentine’s gift, however many years ago. Back in The Good Time.

No, Marvin Gaye is Sam’s only companion on his walk home, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither his route nor the hour concerns him unduly. It’s not like he’s in danger of getting jumped. Of getting successfully jumped. Sam can smell a firing pin from forty yards, and not with his nose.

Then again, he supposes, there are always NEXT-level thieves to consider. But rarely do enhanced persons of the destructive persuasion go for individuals on the street. Why settle for chump change?

Instead they would generally concern themselves with, say, the priceless works of art under motion-sensing alarms in Sternbild's many museums, or the unmarked ingots sealed in any bank’s vaults, or—more harrowingly—the virulent disease strains kept under armed guard in the city's famed biolabs.

No, Sam’s long walk home is an uneventful one, interrupted not even by rain. The sparkling purple-gray clouds overhead coalesce and threaten to break, but lightning only cleaves them once he reaches the skyway-level entrance to his complex.

Sam’s [condo](https://falconandbucky.tumblr.com/post/161227026769/rendering-of-kotetsus-apartment-x) is a nice one on paper: a two-bedroom loft with a twenty-foot ceiling over the living space and a spectacular view of the rainbow of skyscrapers to the southeast. His furniture is largely vintage (read: his dad’s old stuff Darlene had threatened to toss), among them being the dual turntables. They sit upon a handsome midcentury cabinet that Sam and Riley had refurbished, also home to Sam’s magnum opus of a speaker system. Their vinyl collection fills the rest of the cabinet to the brim. Each record sits safely sealed in its dust cover, long untouched.

But all his nice shit notwithstanding, the place is foul. Sam’s turned his home into a complete pigsty, if by way of neglect rather than direct action. It’s as though the garbage has steadily appeared over time, a quiet onslaught of weeds in an otherwise stately flowerbed. He has to kick a cluster of stray cans and bottles aside to reach the freezer, where he knows at least one whiskey handle isn’t empty yet.

Bottle in hand, Sam drops his courier bag onto the more hopelessly buried section of his couch, then sweeps empty Red Hots bags off the other before slumping onto it. By now rain has begun pelting his high windows; cracks of lightning flood the room with ugly clarity, hinting in quick flashes just how long it’s been since he’s made a trash run.

The screen of Sam's CRT television set is smaller than the front of his microwave, but he’d found all the necessary converters and set them up easily enough. What matters is that the thing picks up channels that aren’t goddamn MARVEL LIVE®.

11:31pm MTZ, WeatherZone’s statbar reads. Too late to call Rila.

Darlene would pick up, of course, and Sam could chat with her; he could call at any hour and his momma would lunge for the vidphone’s receiver within two rings, likely throwing out her back in the process.

But, God, Sam wants to see his daughter’s face. He wants to hear her voice! To hear her steady stream of middle school woes, or about her progress on the newest Arduino kit he'd sent her, or of her healthy suspicions regarding boys. Sam wants to tell Ri that if some kid won’t quit calling her names, then he’ll just have to drop by and have a heart-to-heart with the fella.

Which would in turn would bring Ri to demand when, exactly, Sam’s gonna come visit. It’s been _weeks,_ Daddy, and you missed her science fair presentation even though you swore you could make it, even though you’d ordered her a bouquet of flowers, real ones, in her favorite colors—aqua and indigo—and even though you’d called later that night saying you already knew she'd won, that she blew all the other kids out of the water, and you just know the front page of tomorrow’s paper will show her holding that golden trophy. You'll print that photo out and frame it. It'll go right next to all the family photos, the ones with everyone still present and smiling beneath a thick layer of dust.

Rila won't care. She'll tell you she won't care, not about some dumb trophy or newspaper clipping. She asks where you were when you were supposed to be _here_ , and you'll have to make something new up.

It doesn’t matter that a six-alarm fire had sprung up in the HammerTech® complex and that even Heroes off-shift were called in due to the scale of the emergency. You couldn’t even mention that, not to Rila. Rila knows you to be a paralegal, not a firefighter, and certainly not one of her beloved heroes, one of the iconic MARVEL LIVE Heroes.

It doesn’t matter, and it never will. You and Darlene absolutely cannot tell Ri how you earn your paycheck. Because you know what could happen if the wrong person finds out.

You'll cry yourself to sleep that night, wishing for the thousandth time that you could start over.

Yeah, it’s feeling like another couch night.

Sam detests his bed. He’s not yet found a mattress solid enough for his liking. The one sitting atop his box spring is really no good, but he has yet to muster the energy to go shopping for a firmer one. The mere thought of testing out a whole slew of them, of lying down on his back and sensing that heart-stopping lack of support, of feeling the blood rushing to the back of his head, like he’s suspended helplessly in the air, like the world’s dropped out from beneath his feet and he’s got no wings, no parachute to save him, no wingman to catch him, no partner—dead—gone—

 _No._ Sam takes a swig from the bottle. _No. Fuck that._ The couch is fine. It's fine.

Everything's fine.

By the time Sam’s vision fades, his head is fuzzy, the bottle’s empty, and dim sunbeams leer at him through the gaps between skyscrapers.

* * *

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* * *

The moment Sam passes through SHIELDCorp®’s misted front doors, he swears he's fallen back into some disingenuous dream state. A once dark, cool and quiet entry foyer is now a jarringly-lit hurricane of boxes, moving crews and flying papers.

_The hell?_

No one—Sam's double checking now—repeat, _no one_ had sent him a memo regarding this sudden moving-day. Could only he chalk the discord of his surroundings up to his pounding headache and scorched optical nerves. Instead, his HUD-enabled sunglasses reveal the scene in merciless clarity.

At once some toady crosses the foyer to pump Sam’s hand like he’s practicing for double-dutch. “Mister Falcon! Sir! Great to see you. Good to see you. Good. Say, you look a bit more sveldt in person.” They’re standing in the eye of a hurricane; burly movers swarm them from all sides, carrying things out and inventorying cabinets and shouting _much_ too loudly. “Change is in the air, my friend! What say you and I hop on over here where we can bring you up to speed?”

It’s not the sort of thing one just says no to, Sam figures, not when the path to his own cubicle is blocked by a ceiling-high stack of banker boxes. But where they head next is Fury’s corner office.

Had been Fury’s office. The place is empty, save only for his metal hulk of a desk and two straight-backed chairs.

Director Nicholas J. Fury had furnished his command center sparsely to begin with, but gone are the columns of blinking servers, the triple-locked cabinets filled with what God alone knows, and the sleek desk lamp that Sam had wagered to contain a hidden camera. All of it had still been in place only the evening before. _Fury moved out this morning?_

And he hadn’t stuck around, even to say goodbye? ...okay, out of character. But not even for a debrief?

“Alrighty, here we are. Water? Coffee?” Toady glances around the room. “Vodka? I always keep a fifty on me, just in case—”

“Sure,” Sam cuts in perhaps a tad too brusquely. But what the hell is happening here? “Just tell me what’s going on,” he pleads after taking a swig. The tiny bottle tastes suspiciously cold. “Please.”

“Straight to business! Alright, sir, so here’s the stitch: all rights and properties of The Falcon are now under transferal to a brand new presenting sponsor!” Toady beams. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Sam’s heart leaps directly into his burning throat. _No._ “What? Where’s Fury?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have plenty of questions! No doubt about that. But, just for today, to cap off this season, all we need you need to do is proceed as normal. Or, by we, I mean the president, of course. Your costume and branding will remain unchanged until after tonight's crowning. You'll get a preview of your new digs when next season's hook is announced.”

The president meant the CEO of Star Media® and thus the direct controller of MARVEL LIVE’s broadcasting channels and merch distributors. Makes sense, Sam supposes; no matter who had vied for the rights to SHIELDCorp’s contract, the president would be in the know.

But why can’t anyone tell Sam now? As though he’d have any incentive to leak the news before any buildup dropped— “Right, but where am I going? What’s happened to Fury? He said nothing about this—I had no idea—”

“Oh, to be completely honest, I don’t know all that much more than you do. Please don’t shoot the messenger! I have a family!” He laughs at his own joke for a second. “But you can expect correspondence tomorrow morning with the location of your new office. They should be booking you a meeting with the Executive Producer and president as well as your new sponsors."

The full brass, huh. Sam isn't sure whether to feel thrilled or terrified. It sounds awfully like what Clint had described last night. "What kind of meeting?"

"Oh, it should be just like the first time around. You sign your papers, hear their branding ground rules, go over your calendar, then meet with your support team to get fitted for your upgraded suit, and—”

“They’re making me a new costume?” The floor beneath his chair has begun to churn. Something’s not adding up. “You know I’m one of the worst-ranked Heroes in the roster, right? Who’d wanna dump that much money into my brand?” For one thing, standard Hero suits call for SpaceX-grade materials.

“Oh, now, don’t sell yourself short. The Falcon is a longtime fan-favorite with a sizeable following even now. They’re just breathing a bit of new life into older bones, so to speak." And before Sam can protest further, "So, you should probably start heading up to your trailer, right?”

Sam checks his comm—half past eleven already. _Yeesh._ “Fine, alright, okay. But tell them—tell whoever it is that I wanna talk to Fury. He wouldn’t’ve just sprung this on me. I know it.”

“I’ll relay that right now!” They head back out into the gutted lobby. Even SHIELDCorp CMO Maria Hill’s behemoth of a desk is completely emptied, Sam notices with a jolt. _No way they only started on that this morning._ “Great pleasure talking with you, sir. I’m actually a huge fan. Collected every one of the Falcon’s trading cards from as far back as seventy-one!”

“Right.” After taking one last look around the place, Sam sighs and heads up.

The Falcon's trailer is an unmarked hovercraft with just enough cabin room for his locker, makeup stand and one techie to help him suit up. Sam can pull his own tights on, but having a second set of eyes to ensure he passes inspection is standard practice. Helen Cho has as phenomenal an eye for detail as she has engineering prowess, to say nothing of her zeal for the whole super-squad thing.

Once Sam boards the craft, however, he sees Cho isn't alone.

“Thank hell,” Sam breathes at the sight of Fury. Hill is all business in the pilot seat; Cho waves to him from the copilot's chair before snapping her attention back to the bridge feeds. It’s a suspiciously muted gesture for her. “What happ—mm?!”

Fury’s hand is over Sam’s mouth in a heartbeat. He lifts a finger to his own lips and pulls out his phone. _EARS EVERYWHERE,_ Fury types into a note app.

Huh. New arc hook, perhaps. The producers could get wily like that every so often, setting up tropey storylines to compensate for lukewarm criminal activity. That means there should be hidden cameras planted to catch his reaction, and that a new conspiracy-thriller teaser will drop at the Crowning to stir viewers up for the next season's premier.

Sure enough, Sam's NEXT can pick up the telltale humming of four, no, five minuscule microphones planted behind the wallscreens. _Interesting._ No hidden cameras, though. Could Pepper be filming them from long range through the porthole windows? It'd take a hell of an editor to make the footage workable.

Nonetheless he furrows his brows in a show of concern and pulls out his own phone. _U OK?_

Fury gives him a look. Not an okay one. _VIOLATING MY CONTRACT_ , he types into the app _. 0300, LUKE’S. WATCH FOR A TAIL._

Hold up.

This was fourth-wall breakage of the highest order—the unacceptable type. You don’t mention contracts onscreen. Not on MARVEL LIVE. Everyone in the system knows this, from the interns to the key grips to the president, and Fury’s high up there on the totem pole. Had been high up there.

Furthermore, Luke isn’t a sponsor or advertiser, not to Sam’s knowledge. You need mad capital for your logo or name to appear onscreen; Luke’s income is a few tax brackets too low for this degree of promotion.

Sam can only nod. Three was well after the ceremony's reception, and he rarely stuck around for much of the afterparty. He could make it to Luke's easily enough without trouble. The trouble was all in that last sentence.

Looking over his shoulder had become second-nature over the years, sure; personal security was a huge part of the job. But could Sam chalk this up to Fury's usual paranoia? Or was something truly nefarious in the works?

 _...I'm sounding like one of my own commercials._ Gross.

To Sam's surprise, Fury opens the wall-mounted makeup kit and goes to work on Sam's face as though he'd used it every day of his life. Within minutes he blends concealer and bronzers perfectly over the primer layer, lending Sam's cheekbones a luscious golden glow.

 _Where did Fury of all people learn TV makeup_? The same place that taught him to infiltrate a Hero trailer? Sam idly wonders whether Misty is also invited to this secret meetup.

Only the hum of the trailer’s engines cuts into the frosty silence. Sam feels the soft touch of the blending brush, of the familiar whisper-thin layers of pigment steadily coating his cheeks and forehead, and suddenly feels close to wailing. What the hell was going _on_? How had this huge change gone down without him even hearing a whisper of it beforehand? And why were Fury and Hill having to sneak around just to see a former employee?

Any person with a normal job could cry foul, could maybe consider possibly entertaining the notion of taking some form of legal action. A nurse or actuary wouldn’t just show up to work one day and be told that they already have a new boss, new contract and new jobsite with zero prior notification. Departmental shift, maybe, or layoffs, or, hell, a firing. But this?

Well, it's not as though he'll learn anything new in the next five minutes. Sam begrudgingly settles for pulling on his costume pieces in silence. His head is swimming with unknowns, so he tries to focus on the stuff that is familiar—the soothing compression of the superdurable fabric, the thrumming of the hovercraft’s engines beneath his feet, and the beeps of the briefing screens. Good weather conditions, he reads. No flight hazards aside from the usual tourism chopper routes already keyed to his HUD—the red-paned goggles he can fasten on now that Fury's coated his face in setting spray.

"All you, tiger." Cho flips the switch for the side door as Hill steers them into a tilt. The cabin floods with frigid gusts that lift the hems of Fury's coat.

After taking a deep breath, Sam activates his NEXT power. The titanium casing of his wings slides through the wide cutouts of his costume, with thin planes extending to fasten around his shoulders, torso and thighs. He tests the joints; no shearing, no grit. Nothing but smooth, slick motion. Nothing awry with his jetpack. He's good to go.

_Do your job, superhero._

The entire time, Fury's lone eye hasn’t left Sam’s. Sam desperately wants to say something, to thank him aloud, to wish him luck, but more important than his own feelings is Fury’s safety, and that of Hill and Cho. It’s all he can do to squeeze Fury’s leather-gloved hand.

Fury nods and steps back, further into the cabin's interior, where the shadows ensconce him utterly. It's such a thematic transition that Sam reflexively checks one last time for a camera. Yet again he comes up empty.

Whatever. He can worry about this ridiculousness later. Now, it's showtime.

Out he jumps.

* * *

STERNBILD JD PRESENTS  
A STAR MEDIA® PRODUCTION

“This just in,” Chief Commentator Christine Everhart exclaims from behind a _BREAKING NEWS | VILLAIN ALERT_ scrollbar. “A NEXT-level criminal has been spotted on the roof of Xavier Academy with a young hostage in tow!"

Cam-choppers triangulate the school in question, a neoclassical structure nestled in a cluster of floating athletic fields. Onscreen, live footage closes in via abrupt cuts until viewers are met with a closeup of the villain: a middle-aged white man in a trench coat, cargo pants and Docs, the rest of him rimmed in a telltale aqua glow.

He's got a hostage, alright, a little boy no older than nine or ten and shrieking for his life.

**MARVEL LIVE®  
SEASON XII FINALE**

"The five Heroes on patrol are rushing to the scene," Everhart relays. "Who will reach the villain first? Tweet your guesses now; the Hero with the most votes will have a bonus point added to their technical score. The Crowning Ceremony is tonight, but every point still counts!”

A sidebar pops up from the screen’s right edge with live-updating vote counts and a Twitter feed.

 **First Hero to the Scene?**  
**Your Top Answers:**  
1\. **IRON PATRIOT** _7843 votes_  
2\. **FALCON** _6122 votes_  
3\. **SPECTRUM** _3917 votes_

 **Jimmy Morita @fresnosfinest45**  
cap’s got this, everybody else go take  
lunch #captainamerica #marvellive

 **Bett on it** **@youbettchaross**  
#scarletwitch wouldve nabbed this  
creep by now!  #marvellive #favesdayoff

 **Hey It’s That Girl @scarftan**  
#spectrum is gna rip that $ &#%  
a new one lmaooo #marvellive

By now one of the choppers is close enough to pick up audio.

“You wanna keep this brat alive?” the NEXT hollers toward the camera. “Then pay up! Ten million bucks, where I can see ‘em. Anybody interferes?” He holds his free hand before the boy’s head and forms a swirling orb of light in his palm. The boy breaks into a renewed fit of wailing.

It’s that chilling image that freezes in place before shrinking back to behind Everhart. A set of mugshots appears in one corner of the screen.

“The kidnapper in question has now been identified,” Everhart continues, her tone appropriately grave, “as one Dieter Reinhardt. Reinhardt has accrued multiple counts of theft, kidnapping, and aggravated assault in other cities across the nation. The last time he was successfully apprehended was in 1972, and he escaped from prison soon after.”

A map of the States replaces the mugshots. Pins drop onto every city wherein Reinhardt had pulled off a crime—notably excluding Sternbild. _#ReinhardtStandoff_ scrolls along the top of the screen.

“And now for the moment of truth.” Everhart’s eyes narrow. “The first Hero to the scene is…” Here the top-ranking names in the sidebar blur and scramble before flattening to a single line. "Iron Patriot!"

 **IRON PATRIOT**  
FIRST TO SCENE +1 PT  
• POLL WINNER +1 PT

Down the armored Hero dives before landing on the roof with an earth-quaking impact. The dartgun on his shoulder points directly at Reinhardt’s chest.

“That’s close enough!” Reinhardt barks, holding the wailing child in front of him like a shield _._ “Move, or the kid gets it!”

 _“Stand down,_ ” Iron Patriot™ orders, his voice distorted and tinny from the speakers dotting his armor. The United States Air Force insignia is emblazoned across his chest, and an atomic Stark Industries® logo glints from each of his shoulders.

 **Matthew Ellis @POTUS** **✅**  
Word of advice: Don't mess with the machine.  
#IronPatriot #ReinhardtStandoff #MarvelLive

“Make me,” Reinhardt snarls, gathering blue-green light around his fist.

“Reinhardt’s NEXT power enables him to fire off energy beams at will,” Everhart adds. “Citizens in the area are ordered to take shelter immediately. As always, follow _Sternbild Safety Alert_ on Twitter for up-to-date information.”

_“Stand down now. We are authorized to use—”_

Out stretches Reinhardt’s hand. “Authorize _this!”_   he shouts as the beam fires off. It arcs up, away into the sky—well over Iron Patriot’s helmet.

“What’s this?” Everheart gasps. “And… that’s Spectrum and Black Panther, working in tandem for the takedown! What timing!”

An armored hand has phased up through the roof tiles to yank on Reinhardt’s ankle. Off-balance, he falls a ways down the roof as the rest of Spectrum™ leaps up from below.

“Pick on someone your own size, ugly,” the Hero shouts, her locs billowing with the helicopters’ gusts as she takes a fighting stance. Pulsar Tech®’s black seven-pointed star logo pirouettes in place on her LCD-titanium breastplate, and her gauntlets each sport a rotating Chase® ouroburos. ”Takes a real lowlife to threaten a kid.”

Said kid now floats through the air, gliding steadily away from the dazed criminal. At twenty yards, he halts; an instant later, the iconic catsuit of the Black Panther™ glimmers into visibility, with one arm holding the child securely against him. WAKANDA POWER® reads down the Hero's legs in spindly golden strokes that meld into his suit’s many interwoven pieces. He throws two claws up before sprinting away from the scene, with the child now whooping ecstatically in his hold.

 **SPECTRUM**  
TAKEDOWN +3 PTS  
RESCUE ASSIST +2 PTS

 **BLACK PANTHER**  
SINGLE RESCUE +5 PTS  
• MINOR RESCUE +1 PT

“Black Panther has successfully rescued the child hostage,” Everhart narrates as Iron Patriot steps closer. He and Spectrum have Reinhardt’s prone figure trapped between them. "Do Iron Patriot and Spectrum have this in the bag?"

“Give up, Reinhardt,” Spectrum calls, brandishing her platinum-knuckled gloves. Two tranq-tipped needles extend from each, reflecting a parade of lens flares. “You got nowhere to go.”

Reinhardt glances back and forth between the two Heroes, the look on his face far from acquiescent. “Oh, yeah?”

With a blast that has Spectrum covering her ears, a wide area of the roof collapses from beneath Reinhardt’s glowing hand. He falls into the wreckage and runs. Iron Patriot and Spectrum nod to each other before hopping in after him.

“Oh, no!” The live footage shrinks and falls behind Everhart in the newsroom. “Reinhardt is now on the loose inside the school, with Spectrum and Iron Patriot in hot pursuit. Will they catch him in time? Find out right here on Marvel Live, after a quick word from our sponsors.”

Barnes slowly exhales as a Sokovia Holdings® commercial runs. _What a mess._

The school below his feet is sprawling and low and nothing like the Hero Academy™. It takes up valuable real estate instead of operating inside a land-efficient tower. Old-school quaint, that brick façade. The place probably has chalkboards in lieu of touchscreens.

In the seat across from his, Pepper Potts growls in exasperation, her fingertips blurs over her holotop's haptic keypad. “I can’t believe this had to happen the one day both Wanda and Janet have off.” The Producer signals her pilot to take their chopper in lower for a wide shot of the school.

“And Clint,” the President reminds her with a soft smile. “How unlucky that yesterday was his last official shift.” He pats Barnes’ knee.

Barnes refrains from bristling beneath the man’s touch. It’s nothing personal; the President is his hero, and the closest thing he has to a living parent. Barnes just dislikes physical contact.

For the most part, anyways. It’s not like he would freeze up in a fight. He can take a hit. He knows he can take a hit.

“Christine,” Pepper calls into her gold-plated wristcomm as the ad slot nears its end, “we have the Iron Patriot HUD queued for first-person footage. But before that, we want to catch up with Black Panther and that kid they—the kid he rescued. He’s rendezvoused with a field reporter, and we’ve just now located the mother.”

“You don’t want to wait until after the standoff to air that?” Everhart replies inline. “We all might need a morality boost depending on how this next part goes.”

“I have faith in my shock troops.” Pepper sends Barnes a sidelong glance. “In any case, we’re not about to lose viewership from the homemaker segment. Not with a whole school on the line.”

“True enough.” Once the ad ends, Everhart’s face reappears on the chopper cabin's screen. The Reinhardt hashtag had sustained through the commercial break, and Spectrum’s had begun trending for the first time in thirty-six hours. “Welcome back to Marvel Live! Before we switch off to the Heroes’ heads-up displays, let’s check on Black Panther and the young hostage he rescued from Reinhardt’s clutches.”

The show cuts to the Hero in question passing the boy into the arms of a flustered woman. “T-thank you,” she sobs into the reporter’s mic as she and her son hug tight. “Without you and the other Heroes, Miles would have—I wouldn't—he'd—” She sniffles, her words trailing off into a brilliant smile. “God bless all of you, and God bless Marvel Live, and—and—”

"During Reinhardt's exchange with Iron Patriot," the reporter informs the audience as she pulls the mother into a gentle half-hug, "Black Panther snuck up behind him. He whispered to young Miles here to jump away as soon as Spectrum tripped Reinhardt. Was it scary, Miles?"

"Yeah," Miles whispers into the microphone, his wide eyes transfixed by the camera. "That guy was mean. But then I could hear Black Panther, so once that guy let go, I jumped, and then it was like I was flying! It was so dope, I—"

"You've got that right. Black Panther, what were your thoughts during this delicate situation?"

Black Panther pats the mother's other shoulder, his tranq-tipped claws safely retracted. “The true heroes in these situations are kids just like your son. Thank you for being brave, Miles, and for listening exactly to what we asked you to do. You were in a frightening situation, yet you handled it like any hero would.” He holds up one hand for a high-five.

Miles gives him one high and one low before glancing back toward the camera. “Ooh—Ganke! You watching this? Bro, look! I’m on TV! Wah—!”

Miles and the onlookers within the shot gasp as Black Panther jumps away, high over the closest storefronts, shimmering back into invisibility far overhead.

 **Mo Money No Problems @molynnrouge**  
[heart eyes emoji] [sweating emoji]  
[eggplant emoji] [bawling emoji]  
@theblackpanther #blackpanther  
#marvellive #reinhardtstandoff

“What an exit!” The onsite reporter whistles. “But we’re all safe and sound down here. Back to you, Christine.”

“Thank you, Jenny. Now, let’s take a look at the situation inside the school.”

A first-person view of Reinhardt’s retreating back takes over the screen. Reinhardt fires smaller blasts behind, blowing holes into walls as he runs. Shattered glass strews the floor. A man of Reinhardt’s age could never run that quickly, Barnes knows, without his NEXT-level speed and stamina.

“Patriot here.” Live-SFX filters disguise the Hero’s voice in the place of his armor's speaker system. “With that hostage out of the way, Reinhardt’s running out of options. The trick will be to get him to hold still long enough to dart him, or, failing that, incapacitating him using force.”

“I may have to find out whether I can phase through his energy blasts or not,” Spectrum calls, weaving through walls just ahead of Iron Patriot. The footage is so steady that Barnes suspects the latter Hero is flying rather than running.

“That’s dangerous, even for you.” Everhart’s eyes grow round. “What if it turns out you can’t?”

“Then somebody else is gonna have to do some work around here for once!”

“I heard that,” Iron Patriot mutters.

 **Miss T K @rosegoldcyborg**  
Ohhh you better have heard that  
ya bucket @ironpatriotmarvel!!!!!!!!!  
#underratedheroes #spectrum  
#marvellive #reinhardtstandoff #wcw

The chase soon leads them into a gymnasium, where the two Heroes stop abruptly in their tracks. Every student, faculty and staff member looks to have gathered in this space, the designated attack shelter.

“Oh, _sh_ —!” The live-switcher barely catches Iron Patriot’s expletive in time.

Nothing compromises an operation like this many civilians, Barnes knows, but nothing makes for better TV than children in peril. He sighs, wishing the President would pull his hand away.

“Ten million!” Reinhardt shouts, turning about to face his pursuers. His hands begin glowing once again. “Or I blow this whole place down!”

The footage seems to freeze as Iron Patriot hovers in place. The horrified children’s faces come into focus, with the gym's dimly-lit pillars towering severely behind them. Spectrum takes one step forward, just enough to include her (and, Barnes notes, Chase’s logo) within the frame of the footage. It’s a money shot, alright, likely to grace all of this evening's crime reports—licensed from MARVEL LIVE for a nominal fee, of course.

Barnes grits his teeth. There's no way this will end well. Reinhardt clearly doesn't mind causing collateral damage. Cornered NEXT always, without fail, resort to extreme violence, no matter the number of lives at stake.

He looks away. He can’t watch this. Not so many kids—

“Not today!”

Barnes knows that voice. He glances back to the screen, feeling a renewed rush of hope flow through him.

Hollering, Reinhardt flies helplessly toward the ceiling as a Hero in a red, white and blue _Strategic Scientific Reserve_ uniform lunges through a high window, protected from the shattering glass by his iconic round shield.

“Captain America is on the scene!” Everhart announces, her smile practically audible. “He’s trapped Reinhardt in an anti-grav zone, but it won’t last much longer.”

Captain America™ glows with brilliant aqua light as he sustains the zero-gravity patch beneath Reinhardt. Like a spotlight, it only covers a ten-foot radius—but, this time, that’s all he needs.

“Quick, before he fires another blast!” Cap grits his teeth, straining to maintain the patch beyond its five-second limit.

Iron Patriot takes to the air, gifting MARVEL LIVE viewers with an incredible first-person action sequence. He grabs Reinhardt’s suspended form in both hands and somersaults in midair, using his momentum to hurl Reinhardt through the busted window frame.

 **CAPTAIN AMERICA**  
COLLATERAL DMG I -3 PTS  
TAKEDOWN ASSIST +1 PT

 **IRON PATRIOT**  
TAKEDOWN +3 PTS

The gym breaks into cheers as Iron Patriot flies out after him; now the camera switches over to Spectrum’s HUD. She and Captain America usher the students and faculty out from the gym, sending them in the opposite direction from where Iron Patriot had thrown Reinhardt.

 **SPECTRUM**  
MASS EVAC III +35 PTS

 **CAPTAIN AMERICA**  
MASS EVAC III +35 PTS

Barnes watches as Reinhardt flies through the window below him, bouncing a few times across one of the athletic fields hovering outside the gym. Beneath them, only a handful of elevated truck routes and pedestrian catwalks crisscross over the ground-level industrial center far, far below.

“This will be interesting,” the President murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand to prop his chin on it. Barnes works his jaw as Pepper calls orders to the switcher.

 _BABABA—BABABA—BABABA—_ Iron Patriot rapid-fires tranq darts at Reinhardt, who fends them off with ease using smaller, quicker blasts. The criminal’s reflexes are surprisingly swift, even for a NEXT. Suspiciously swift, Barnes thinks.

“Iron Patriot is trying his darnedest to take Reinhardt down,” Everhart relays, “but he doesn’t have an unlimited number of darts!”

With the cam-choppers back in action, the live feed jumps from Iron Patriot’s HUD to portray a bird’s-eye view of the fight. It’s a tight exchange, Reinhardt’s blasts versus Iron Patriot’s arsenal, but Iron Patriot’s NEXT ability strictly enables him to fly. His dartgun is semiautomatic, not quite outpacing Reinhardt’s barrage.

“Damn it,” he growls inline as his gun begins firing blanks. “I’m going to have to get in close.”

Pepper opens the Iron Patriot suit schematics on her holotop. “How well can your armor hold up against those blasts?”

“It’s supposed to keep me from turning into a pancake if I get shot down again,” he replies, now flying in tight zigzags to dodge Reinhardt’s blasts. “As for this crap—well. Only one way to find out.”

“Great,” Pepper breathes. “Have a one-liner ready for the next shot. MJ, queue up Camera C. Three, two, one, action!”

A masterful tracking shot captures Iron Patriot’s quick dive and sudden midair halt. _“Time to swap Baby out for the big gun.”_

Pepper squints. “Should’ve specified a good one-liner.”

 **You know who I am @tonystark** **✅**  
#WARMACHINEROX #faceit  
#theoldbrandingwasbetter  
#suemeprez #ironpatriot  
#reinhardtstandoff #marvellive  
#pepisthiswhatyoucalledhashtagabuse

Iron Patriot outmaneuvers another array of blasts before diving into a collision course with Reinhardt. Too fast an approach, Barnes thinks, and the Hero won’t dodge Reinhardt’s attacks in time. Too slow, and Reinhardt would sidestep him with ease. _He needs help._

“Sir,” he murmurs, “if it’s alright, I could—?”

“No.” The President doesn’t so much as glance his way.

 _Really…?_  Barnes chews his tongue and keeps watching. It’s a bull fight of a matchup, with Patriot diving in only to inevitably miss Reinhardt by inches, orbiting him in rotating revolutions like an electron.

“Overlay the Stark Industries logo atop the BEV,” Pepper orders into her wristcomm. “No, keep it subliminal—three percent opacity—perfect. Ooh, Tony so owes me another Jag.”

But as Iron Patriot pulls around for yet another dive, Barnes notices the shifting in Reinhardt’s stance. _Oh, no—_

“He’s gonna hit,” he murmurs, feeling his lungs ice over.

The President grins. “You think Iron Patriot has this?”

Barnes quickly shakes his head. “Not him. Reinhardt.”

“Oh.” The grin falters. “That would be a shame.”

Iron Patriot picks up his pace now, dodging the blasts by narrower and narrower margins. As narratives go, the tension here is perfect—a climactic clash, with Iron Patriot hollering appropriately for his blinding speed.

“Game’s over!” Reinhardt shouts, gathering his largest blast yet in between both hands.

“No,” Pepper moans. “Pull off, Rhodes! Get out of there!”

“Approach vector locked,” Iron Patriot calls inline. “Wish me—!”

 _Fuck_. Barnes rises to his feet as Iron Patriot closes in. _He’s—_

“Sit down,” says the President. His tone is light, but the order jolts through Barnes’ nerves until nausea knocks him back into his seat.

 _But—_ He winces, grinding his teeth together as Iron Patriot approaches his certain doom. Three seconds—two—one—

The following _CRUNCH_ is audible over the helicopter’s blades. But Iron Patriot hasn’t crashed. Instead he continues to fly, straight through his predicted point of impact—now but a dusty whirlwind.

“Wow!” Everhart’s voice rings through both Pepper’s wristcomm and the television. “That’s three points to Falcon for a solid takedown! Where’d he even come from?!”

 **FALCON**  
LAST TO SCENE -1 PT  
TAKEDOWN +3 PTS

Pepper whistles. “Someone took his sweet time.”

Reinhardt’s beam arcs skyward yet again until it dissolves harmlessly far overhead. The Falcon™ had tackled him cleanly from the side, sending him bouncing a few yards down the field.

Barnes bites his knuckle to keep from chuckling aloud. What was it about the Hero’s hit that had been so disarmingly funny? The timing of it, maybe. How he’d stolen Iron Patriot’s big moment, perhaps. Either way, Barnes can’t remember the last time he’d wanted to laugh so much at, well, anything.

 _“What,_ ” Iron Patriot jeers as he falls in next to Falcon, _“were you napping?”_

Falcon throws his arms into the air in exasperation, his wrist-mounted dartguns still tucked into his glinting vambraces. “An old folks’ home caught fire down on level two. Just my luck some freak attacks a school while I'm stuck evacuat—yeek!”

“That was a close one!” Everhart hisses as the Heroes narrowly dodge a sudden blast. Reinhardt is back on his feet. “Can Iron Patriot and Falcon land a successful capture? Or will Reinhardt and his energy beams outlast two Heroes at once? Find out on Marvel Live, right after these messages!”

“And cut,” Pepper calls. “Falcon, Patriot, _keep him there_. He can jump, but he can’t fly away—“ She blinks. “Can he?!”

“NEXT with two different powers aren’t unheard of,” the President replies while scrolling through his phone. “But none have made it to the database that aren’t already detained.”

"Multi-powered NEXT glow orange," Barnes reminds them. "Not blue." The President grins and claps his hand back onto Barnes’ knee. _Should’ve kept my big mouth shut_.

“Wonderful.” Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose. On her holotop feed, two ten-second spots for PymTech® and the SSR queue up behind the first ad, a last-minute promo for Crowning Ceremony. The live stadium seats had long sold out, but heaven forbid a viewer forget which channel or stream to flip to right at 9pm (7pm MT).

“A 'FalconWokeUp' hashtag has now amassed over five thousand Tweets,” the President chuckles over his phone, his water-colored eyes crinkling softly.

Barnes watches the unpunctual Hero closely. The Falcon's swoops and dives make for cool TV, sure, all undeniably awesome in their own right. His NEXT isn't even flight-granting, Barnes remembers, yet the Falcon soars with a curious touch of elegance absent in the Iron Patriot's tight, efficient maneuvers.

But there’s something about the Falcon, some odd aura present in his real-life motion, that the cameras aren’t quite capturing—minute details lost in the pixilation, perhaps, or an improper angle, one that doesn't do him justice. Anyone not watching him in person’s been missing out, Barnes thinks. It's—he's—well, he's lovely. A peculiar ache springs up in Barnes’ chest.

Naturally, he panics. _Did I pull something…?_

“Come at me,” Reinhardt growls, spreading his feet in a wider stance. “One, two, I don’t care how many Heroes you got—you’ll all be zeroes by the time I’m through with—!”

“Never heard that one before,” the Falcon jeers as he swoops in, his dartguns unfolding into his open palms. “Not gonna hear it again, neither!”

Next to Barnes, Pepper has an aneurysm. _“Not now,_ Wilson! Wait until after the commercial break!”

Growling in exasperation, Falcon pulls off his dive last-minute. Reinhardt looks up from flinching, having covered his head with both arms. “I could’ve had him!”

“How many times do I have to tell you that this isn’t how we operate?!”

“You want him to keep shooting energy beams around the city?”

“You’ll get him soon enough, but we’ll lose critical funding if we can’t include these spots before the climax!”

“Climax schmimax. A bad guy that’s talking isn’t a bad guy who’s aiming, y’know?”

 _Irrelevant_ , Barnes could argue. _Never take an enemy down offscreen,_ he could recite.

He keeps his big mouth shut, for what little it's now worth.

“It’s only a few seconds’ delay. We’ve made it through worse.” Pepper cracks her knuckles. “Alright, gentlemen. Back on air in three… two… one…”

“We’re still at the Reinhardt Standoff on Marvel Live,” Everhart reports. “Iron Patriot and the Falcon have kept the perpetrator at a standstill. The good news is that Captain America and Spectrum now have the whole school evacuated. Again, all citizens in Level Three, Bloc F9 are implored to take cover. Viewers, follow _Sternbild Safety Alert_ on any social media platform to find the blast shelter nearest you.”

The two Heroes continue to circle Reinhardt. “You distract him,” the Falcon hisses into his radio, “and I’ll dart him from behind.”

_“Oh, so you can take all the Capture points?”_

“You’d still get Assist points.”

_“Maybe I want the damn Capture points.”_

“You’re out of darts!”

“Gentlemen,” Pepper growls into her wristcomm, “take him down now, or I’ll do it myself and no one will get any points.”

 _“Now that I would pay to s—oh,_ shit—!” This time, the interjection does come out in full as Iron Patriot dodges another round of blasts. _Minus one point for language_ , Barnes thinks, smirking.

The Falcon circles around behind Reinhardt, twin dartguns up. Forty yards closer and he’s in range—thirty—twenty—

“Eurgh!” Reinhardt howls as a single dart lodges in his thigh. He yanks it out and fires a flurry of blasts toward Falcon, who barely dodges them as he swoops—some by a matter of millimeters. Barnes dully registers. His jaw falls open as the Falcon zips across the screen, nearly drawing close enough to the chopper for the beams to hit the camera—but he pulls away just in time.

Barnes bites his lips to keep from grinning, all in vain. _Guy knows what he's doing, I'll give him that._

“Very good sequence,” the President murmurs. “We can drop that into his season-in-review montage tonight.”

The switcher's—MJ’s mouth sulkily twists as she queues up Camera A. "If he doesn’t get blown to bits first."

Barnes swallows his grin. Again that ache in his chest flares up.

On top of that, he cannot shake the sensation of shearing metal racking through him now. He tastes it at the base of his tongue, whatever it is, that sour shockwave of pain. It burns his throat, imbuing him with a string of broken thoughts.

_Now—the wing—he’s—snap the—EX0—FALC—_

“Falcon’s landed one dart,” Everhart continues, “but Reinhardt is still kicking! How many will it take to knock him out?”

 _“Alright, alright,_ ” Iron Patriot sighs into the comm. _“One-eighty formation?”_

“Roger that.” The two Heroes nod to one another before flying in different directions.

Reinhardt glances back and forth between them, turning about in place as the two Heroes orbit him from opposite sides. “Think you’re scary?!” Bright energy gathers into both of his hands. “’S that what you think? You kids don’t stand a—yarrgh!”

Both Iron Patriot and Falcon dive toward Reinhardt, who in shock fires off both beams at once.

“Oh, snap—!” Falcon narrowly misses his, while Iron Patriot isn’t quite so lucky.

“Rhodes!” Pepper calls after the impact. “Status?!”

 _“Fine! I’m fine. Just got the wind knocked outta me. Armor’s got a nice dent in it, though.”_   Iron Patriot falls back fifty yards, free-spinning most of the way.

Meanwhile, Reinhardt has taken to bombarding everywhere in the Falcon’s general direction with blasts. The Hero executes a series of flips and frantic dodges that has Barnes holding his breath and inching forward in his seat.  _C'mon—hang in there—_

“Can’t—hold him off—forever—anybody—?”

“Take that! And that! And that!” Reinhardt continues rapid-firing blasts toward Falcon with both hands. “I got you now! Die! Die! D—” Suddenly, he freezes in place, his jaw slackening. “Ghh—!”

“What’s going on down there?” the President asks, as though they don’t all have a close-up shot by way of Camera B. “Pepper?”

“That’s a wrap,” Pepper replies, clasping her hands together in triumph. “Take us down, Happy.”

“Black Panther has snuck up on Reinhardt!” Everhart exclaims as the Hero’s invisibility dissolves to reveal him standing right behind Reinhardt. The last of him to appear are his claws, sunken deep into Reinhardt’s shoulders. Reinhardt gags, swaying where he stands, and then drops to one knee.

 **BLACK PANTHER**  
SINGLE CAPTURE +20 PTS

“Throw Falcon and Patriot some assist points,” says the President. “They distracted Reinhardt just long enough for Panther to sink him."

His word is law; a moment later,

 **FALCON**  
CAPTURE ASSIST +10 PTS

 **IRON PATRIOT**  
CAPTURE ASSIST +10 PTS

“Securing the perp now,” Black Panther calls over the comm. "Advising caution. He's disoriented but not incapacitated."

Tranq never works immediately, Barnes knows, and can vary in effectiveness from person to person. He watches Black Panther’s careful movements, how nimbly he steps to remain behind Reinhardt’s back as Reinhardt turns in place, groggily shifting his weight and firing off weaker blasts at random.

“Do we have an onsite reporter at the school?” Pepper calls to the studio. Their chopper's bay door slides open to give Camera A room to work. The sudden gusting blows Barnes' hair back from his face. “Are Cap and Spectrum prepped for post-action interviews?”

“Yes and yes. Okay to switch?”

“Do it."

Their helicopter is only yards above the field now. Barnes looks up to watch the Falcon swoop overhead in elegant figures-eight, gradually gliding lower like a slender kite borne on the spring breeze. He chats with Chopper 2’s pilot through her window, soon sending her into a fit of laughter.

What Barnes would give to hear what the Falcon had said to her. He swallows, again feeling that dull ache throb in his chest. ... _I should really get that checked out._

“Stick to the script,” Pepper orders the Heroes at the school. “Once we have this guy cuffed, I’ll signal to—”

"Not secured," Black Panther shouts into the comm. "Hold off! Minimum safe distance compromised!"

Pepper snaps her attention back to Camera B's feed, still trained on Black Panther. “What’s happening?”

“Ghyrarrghh—!” With one last vestige of strength, Reinhardt gathers two hands’ worth of energy and fires it straight up—directly toward Chopper 2.

Barnes’ jaw drops. _He’ll blow the thing up—!_

 _“No!”_  Without a moment’s hesitation, Falcon dives beneath the helicopter.

The blood drains from Pepper’s face as the massive beam of energy hits the Falcon squarely in the solar plexus, crushing him violently against the chopper’s metal hull. _“Sam!”_

 _Sam._ So that’s his first name _._ Barnes grits his teeth as Sam plummets. _Wake up,_ he wills, begs. It’s the closest he’s ever come to praying. _Sam—wake up—snap out of it—please—_

“He isn’t shaping his wings into a chute,” MJ whispers under her breath. The President shakes his head, his eyes clouding over. "He's gotta be—"

He's—Sam is out cold. The Falcon’s out. Iron Patriot’s on the clear other side of the field. The other Heroes are even further away. There’s no time.

But, he—he’s— _snap the wing!—now!—_?

The President inhales sharply as Barnes lunges up. “James. No.”

Oh, the nausea surfaces, alright. But countering the President’s iron net of words is the blissful feeling of jumping free from his clutching hand, of the cool air greeting Barnes' face as he leaps forward, of finally being able to do _something_.

If he’s timed this right, which of course he has, then he’ll reach the Falcon’s limp form at a perfect angle in three—two—one—

_Got you._

Barnes pulls Sam tight against him, his momentum halted only in the slightest by their impact. He tucks Sam’s head against his chest as he continues to sail forward, bracing him with the same motions he’d practiced more times than he could count. He’d expected this to feel—more mechanical, somehow. More automatic. Hell knows he's trained enough for this.

But out here, with Sam still breathing in his arms—with an unmistakable pulse under his fingertips, and the steady if quick rising and falling of Sam’s chest—this is better than any mindless execution inside the school gym, no matter how perfect. This feels good. Feels right.

Seconds later he finishes skidding to a long, steady halt. The soles of his boots leave two deep trenches in the athletic field’s fluffy grass. _Touchdown._

“Wha—?” Though his eyes are obscured by his red goggles, confusion registers in the Hero’s features nonetheless as he suddenly glances between Barnes’ face and arm. The left one. “Who the hell are you?”

“The guy who just saved your ass.” The _nerve_ —Barnes can’t remember the last time he’d felt such an instantaneous clot of rage drip from his tongue. _What’s with this guy?_   “Why the hell didn’t you pull up? Are your wings jammed?”

It’s a question whose answer he already knows. The Falcon’s iconic wings, now draping limply from his shoulder blades like a chunky scale-mail cape, hold a seamless stream of electricity in their circuits—the same flavor of electricity powering his own prosthetic. The flow of power is too strong and too clean to indicate any substantial damage. Again Barnes tastes metal at the back of his tongue, and fights the urge to retch.

“None of your business.” Sam—er—Wilson squirms in his grip. “You want the magic word or what?”

With a sharp exhale, Barnes lets Wilson go. He’s almost disappointed that Wilson doesn’t fall awkwardly onto the ground. Instead the Hero smoothly retracts his wings and lands with a graceful light-footedness that Barnes definitely—definitely in no way whatsoever envies, no. Nope. Hmph.

Damn his mask for only covering the upper part of his face, Barnes curses, turning away as he crosses his arms. That the blood has rushed unforgivingly to his cheeks needs to go with him to his grave.

“Falcon, are you injured?” Pepper sounds genuinely concerned. _How far back do those two go?_

Barnes isn't sure which is worse: that the Academy had only covered the Hero roster’s professional lives, or that Barnes had never taken issue with that fact until right now.

“Just a scratch,” Wilson replies through gritted teeth. The beam had burned straight over the plunging neckline of his costume, leaving a nasty laceration on his solar plexus. Blood seeps into the fire-engine red, white and gray of his suit. “No need to call an ambulance or anything.”

Barnes doesn't buy it. Even with NEXT-level healing, any kind of flesh wound can pose a variety of risks. “Sure you don’t want a medic? That really doesn’t look good.” Looks like it hurts.

"I make it look good, rookie." The Falcon scowls. "Hey, Pep, do I wanna know what's going on?" He glances at Barnes through the corner of his eye. "Wasn't aware Danica's BDSM Den could sponsor cameos."

 _Asshole—_ Barnes snaps his jaw shut. _What I get for caring—_ no, no, wait. _See if I care._ Because he certainly does not.

“It seems the newest member of our roster has elected to debut ahead of schedule,” the President chuckles, “your merciful Producer willing.”

“Oh, sir! Pardon. Didn’t realize you were, uh, listening.” Wilson snaps into a nonchalant stance, one hand planted on his hip like he’s bored even as blood continues to run down his front. “How’s it going? Hyped up for the crowning, yeah?”

“I’m just happy you’re in one piece, Wilson,” is the President's smooth reply. “James, we’ll discuss your creative take on mid-firefight subordination at a later time.”

“Sir.” The word comes out lowly, all but a whisper. Maybe it's because he’s winded from his jump. But maybe not.

 _What did you expect me to do?_ he could theoretically ask. _Let him fall to his death?_ The Falcon was an ungrateful brat, sure, but even ungrateful brats were people. If adult civilian rescues were worth five points each, how much would a Hero rescue have counted? (Answer: also five. But, still.)

Not that he’s going to ask. The President always knows what’s best. This much he knows to be true.

Besides, the Falcon had been goddamn awake for that whole thing. _Bet he was planning a last-minute dive recovery._ Yeah, that had to be it. Classic pilot bravado. _Damn flyboys—_ spurring him to act irrationally, impulsively, and for no good—

“Camera B snagged a great close-up of that catch, by the way,” MJ adds inline. “At seventy-percent speed, it’s money.”

“Queue it now,” Pepper breathes, her eyes alight. Barnes had never before wondered what impending relevance in its purest form must smell like, and now will never need to. “I already threw Christine a backup script to induce speculation hype for this guy." _She what?_   "Panther, is Reinhardt still kicking?”

“Down for the count,” Black Panther answers with no small note of distaste. “At long last. Cuffing him now.”

“Fantastic.” Pepper rattles off last-minute orders to the other chopper pilots and grips. “Alright, give your scripts a quick read. Mr. President, Mr. Barnes, please clear the set. Sam, angel, please act glad you didn’t die."

Wilson begrudgingly lets a medic patch up his chest wound. “Not a problem, Pep. You know me. I love my job and I love my life.”

Pepper shakes her head and checks in with the teleprompter tech. "Alright, alright. Places, everyone. We have time for one quick run-through. Quiet on set! Ready? Action!”

Safely behind the chopper, Barnes watches silently as the Heroes rehearse their new post-fight scripts and blocking.

…Is it just his imagination, or is the Falcon glaring daggers at him even through that winning smile of his?

It really is a stunning smile, too. A gorgeous one. _Ouch._

Sighing, Barnes braces himself for one long story arc.

* * *

 **Sternbild trends ·** Customize

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what y'all think! I take issue with some of the writing/characterization in the Tiger & Bunny canon so this is sort of a fixit fic as well as an outlet for the indelible #Stackie feelings.  
> Photos and art for this fic can be found at [FalconandBucky.tumblr.com](https://falconandbucky.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**MARVEL LIVE** **®** **HeroBytes** **™** # **193 | November 22, 1971: Falcon** **’s Day Off**

 _Codename: Falcon_ _™_ _. Top sponsors: Phillips_ ®, _Adidas_ ® _, and SHIELDCorp_ ® _. Years on the roster: 2.5. NEXT power: Technomancy. Voted Champion twice, back-to-back: his debut season in ’70 and again last season._

Welcome back! This is only the second time you've recorded HeroBytes with us, I believe. **Really? Because I feel like I've known you my whole life, Miss Potts.** Oh, stop it. Now, without further ado...

Favorite place to play in Sternbild? **Level 4's where the clubs'll start getting choosy with the clientele, but, ah, not so much that it gets dull.** Any hot spots in particular? **Studio 33, Rocacabana… Guiletta's, sometimes. But then it depends on the crowd.** Do you do crowds, Falcon? Or need your space? **I don't mind crowds so long as—so long as I'm with the right person.**

Cute. Favorite way to spend your on-call nights? **Nothing too wild. Jogging, playing records, cooking, keeping the apartment up—the usual stuff. But, sometimes...** Sometimes? **Date nights.** Are you a romantic, Mister Falcon? **Some might say.** I'll say! Describe your perfect date. **April twenty—ha, no, kidding. Hrm. Maybe a nice dinner somewhere, someplace we have to get dressed up for. And dancing afterward. Gotta have dancing.**

Dancing. Are you a ballroom man? Or strictly club-hopping? **Truth be told, private parties've been a better route lately. When you're a Hero, it's, uh, it's a little easier on you to keep to exclusive joints. Personal safety and all that.** Of course. I've heard the other Heroes can throw some crazy shindigs. **Yeah, yeah, sometimes I'll go to Hero parties—but only if their records are any good.**

I'm sensing you have better taste in music than I do! What's your go-to album? **Pep, don't do this to me. Uh. Pass.** Answer the question, Falcon. **I, uh, I'm loving the sounds coming out of Detroit and Philly right now?** _Answer the question_ , _Falcon._ **Oof. Alright, uh... ooh, this is tough—I'd have to say a tossup, between the Temptations' _Live at the Copa_ , and, uh, and _Lady Soul_. Aretha. Lord, is she something. **

She is something. Real quick, can you confirm or deny the rumor that Phillips just pays you to make all their awesome products using your NEXT? **That’s a firm deny, Pep. They’re doing stuff at Phillips that I couldn’t come up with in a million years, NEXT or no. Check out their new line of hi-fi smart recorders at any gadget shop near you.**

Will do! Alright, last one: boxers or briefs? **Hanes Givvies or bust, baby.**

* * *

**EP 2: LEADS**

“The final tally is in,” proclaims Christine Everhart, resplendent in a red ballgown and a deluge of stage lights—lights that suddenly dim as she plants her mic onto the gilded podium. The stadium's worth of Live Crowning Event Ticket-Holders roars before her, the rich bastards. “Please, everyone, give another round of applause to the Heroes of Marvel Live!”

The noise level is staggering, even to those waiting backstage. Sam gives Clint’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

To think he's known this guy for thirteen insufferably long years—first on two tours of joint-service Explosive Ordnance detail in Pakistan, then as a civvy, watching Clint on TV before meeting him for happy hours with—with—

 _Uh uh. Don't go there._ He can't do this right now.

Clint had been in his wedding party, Sam recalls, with Rhodes and Steve, all in their dress uniforms. And that had been before Hero duty.

But after all that time spent fighting alongside this crazy guy, after uncountable triumphs and a few ugly losses, after too many hair-raising stunts and not nearly enough karaoke nights, they've somehow made it to his finale. Even if Clint could still hang around HQ for a few more weeks, his impending absence from the field already digs into Sam's heart.

How did this happen so fast? _How do thirteen years vanish into thin air?_

"In eighth place, with four hundred sixteen points and over nine hundred K viewer votes: Hawkeye!"

The crowd's decibel level now, higher than for Clint’s introduction in any recent seasons past, puts Sam firmly on edge. Had the news been leaked? Or could enough viewers have inferred Clint’s retirement prematurely?

 _Probably because of the fuck-up this afternoon_. Trust a kid ten minutes out of the Academy to botch his own debut. Or, worse, to deflect his own botch onto—

“—seventh, with six hundred forty-one points and one point two million votes: Falcon!”

Sam’s ears pop from the wall of noise he hits as he swoops onto the stage. Overhead, a massive holoscreen plays his season highlights reel behind SHIELDCorp®'s austere logo. Smaller lockups for American Airlines® and Intel® appear in the lower corners. The stage lights switch to the precise hex code of his costume's red (dubbed _Falcon Five Alarm_ ™ for O·P·I®'s limited edition _Marvel-ous_ ™ lacquer line).

For this season’s ceremony, Sam wears a special iteration of his suit—a high-collared one with the torso's sides cheekily cut out in lieu of his usual plunging neckline. Thankfully Cho had given him the heads-up in the weeks beforehand; he’d since worked extra-hard on his obliques. NEXT only does so much for his muscle definition, and Sam knows he has to look camera ready, no matter how he feels.

The searing spotlights in his eyes obscure the nearest spectators into gloomy silhouettes, but he keeps a stage smile plastered on as he waves and bows. _See, not last place!_ Not yet. Not today.

Everhart continues to call the rankings. Out floats Scarlet Witch™ for sixth, her asymmetrical mage costume embroidered in gold with the calligraphic Sokovia Holdings® woodmark. Anadarko® and ConAgra™ also appear over her highlights reel. Even though Monica had just surged past her thanks to that afternoon’s evac, Sam knows the drill: Wanda will surely get tossed some heartwarming most-improved award during the reception.

Next appears Monica, phasing through the curtains in a burst of white light for fifth. Rhodey dives in for fourth before giving a majestic salute. When the Wasp™ is called, Janet sprouts from the ground into her human size to clinch the bronze for PymTech® and Mercedes-Benz®, plus a host of lesser sponsors.

She, too, has on a new specialty uniform, but that's standard territory for the Wasp. The Hero’s prêt à porter line outsells the three next-best fashion houses combined, at least in Sternbild. Sam himself owns two _VENOM_ ™ _by The Wasp_ ™ for MARVEL LIVE® belts and had impulse-bought one of her leather jackets last Christmas.

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Everhart calls MARVEL LIVE's esteemed producer to the podium. Pepper marches up in a gold backless dress that Sam cannot help but envision transforming into a wicked suit of armor.

“Thanks, Christine. The polls have been closed for ten minutes, folks, so you really can put your phones down for a few seconds. Now, let’s give a shout to our two highest-scoring Heroes this season: Captain America and Black Panther!”

A frenzy ensues as the two Heroes take to the stage, Cap somersaulting in from above and Panther shimmering out of nowhere into a fighting stance.

Crowd controllers lining the aisles and stage ramps have long earned their paychecks. A pair of poorly-aimed panties flutters to a halt at Rhodey’s feet; he briefly snaps into a melodramatic _Oh my word!_ pose. In that tough-guy armor of his? Memetic gold.

“In second place, with one thousand three hundred ninety-two points and over four million viewer votes…” Pepper gives a dramatic pause so the stadium can hold its collective breath. The whole place falls to near-darkness save for Steve and T’Challa’s spotlights, blue and orange beacons in the silent night. “…Black Panther!”

Sam and Rhodey exchange groans as the stadium blasts his ears into smithereens. He knows Rhodey is rolling his eyes behind that opaque helmet. Anyone who'd had to witness this same shit four times now would.

Don’t get Sam wrong; he's happy for Steve. The guy is solid. A real hero. Inspirational sunuvabitch. No questioning that.

But every time, without fail, he's voted over T’Challa last-second in the viewer polls—even though T’Challa consistently surpasses his technical score by a fat margin. Sam had begrudgingly accepted that nebulous discrepancy the first few times, but at this point the routine is ridiculous. Inexcusable. Clichéd.

Still, he claps, and not because it's compulsory. Sam does love Steve. Good old ambivalence, bolted into his territory with barbed harpoons.

“And so I give you this season's Marvel Champion, with one thousand fifty-six points and four point one million votes: Captain America!”

At once the stage lights all take on the hues of Cap’s branding. Without having to look, Sam knows that Steve's victory montage is rolling on the holoscreen behind the SSR logo, plus those of GoArmy.com® and Under Armour, Inc.® _“USA! USA! USA!”_ rings through the stadium.

The Heroes leave their spots to exchange hugs and handshakes and the like. Upon reaching Steve, Sam kisses him full on the mouth. _There._ Will Pepper finally quit pestering him about his fanservice quota? A guy can dream.

Steve kisses back in full force, cupping Sam's face in his hands, until Sam pulls away a moment later. Just long enough for the more eagle-eyed viewers to snag a screencap. _Cha-ching._ In any case, Rogers needs all the practice he can get.

“It’s bullshit,” Sam hollers into T’Challa’s neck as they embrace next. He’s so pissed off for T’Challa’s sake that he’s already forgiven them for stealing Reinhardt's capture points. Virtually forgiven them. Who's bitter? Not Sam. Never Sam. “You won in my heart, baby. You won. Right here. Champion of my heart, that’s what.”

“The only place I care about.” T’Challa playfully nuzzles Sam’s cheek. “Celebrate with me tonight, bird man.”

“Sure, just let me cancel all of my other pl—wah!” Rhodey squeezes them both into a lung-crushing hug from behind. The three of them sway on the spot, buckling with laughter, as the other Heroes and stage-cleared brass mill about.

Red, white and blue streamers fall from overhead. Triumphant music floods the stage. Rila's three towns away, hopefully doing her homework, but safe either way from all of Sam's occupational hazards. Everything's fine. Really. Sam genuinely forgets for a few seconds how awful his day had been.

Too few. “Congratulations!” Pepper has returned to the podium. “Congratulations, Cap, Panther, all of you incredible Heroes who have spent a great year keeping Sternbild safe.”

As she speaks, the spectators begin to settle back into their seats, and Sam reluctantly returns to his stage mark. Without the spotlights in his eyes, he can more clearly see the audience, the front few rows at least. Just aft of the podium, the Star Media president uncrosses his legs and leans forward.

“However, tonight’s ceremony is a bittersweet one.” Pepper gives a pained smile as the blue lighting fades to deep purple. “For we must now say goodbye to the longest-acting Hero on our roster. After a great run spent keeping the forces of evil at bay, one of our Heroes is now ready to join the ranks of his retired colleagues." And before anyone can boo or, worse, cheer— "Please, all of you, give a round of applause to a Hero who has served us for over ten years—never giving up, backing down, or missing a shot. Hawkeye!”

To the spectators’ credit, some of them do gasp as the camera flashes return at full strength. The clapping and cheering swell as Clint makes a series of deep bows. Dozens of purple roses land on the stage, plus a few gifts that don’t look prearranged. Clint catches a pizza box and cracks up, jerking one chiding finger to the brunette woman who had expertly Frisbee-tossed it his way.

“Thank you, Hawkeye.” Pepper lifts one hand toward the screen now plastered with promotions for purple-hued merch. “For all you longtime fans of the archer, have no fear. Collector’s edition merchandise celebrating Hawkeye’s spectacular career will be available to preorder, starting tonight, at Marvel Live dot com and participating retailers near you!”

 _Get that cash, Barton_. Sam maintains his clapping as Pepper and the president himself present Clint with a trophy, medal and bouquet of more indigo roses. Once he gives a quick word of thanks at the podium, the other retired Heroes—Stark, Romanoff, Odinson and Banner, as Sam knows them—line up to shake his hand, sparking a renewed crowd pop.

As Clint makes to exit along with them, the remaining Heroes all rush him at once in a concerted group hug. Since none of this is news to Sam, he seeks out Wanda’s face rather than Clint’s. It’s unsurprisingly tear-streaked.

Sam makes a mental note to check in with Wanda over the weeks following. Saying goodbye to a beloved celebrity icon was one heartbreaking matter. But when that same idol has been a close friend, a dedicated mentor, and a personal role model, one who had more than once trusted her with his life—and on no notice?

Yeah, he’d keep an eye on her. It doesn't help how much she reminds him of Rila sometimes. _Don't cry, sweetheart,_ he wants to beg. _You'll make it through this. I know you can._ Jesus, now he's tearing up.

“And for our grand finale,” Pepper soon croons into the podium mic, “we have one last major development to announce, one that will shape many seasons to come for Marvel Live. Viewers who paid attention during today's finale may have noticed an unfamiliar face during that little SNAFU at the end."

At once the crowds begin to drone. They can do the math, Sam imagines. One Hero gone frees up a contract slot for one more.

"Yes, yes, those do happen, folks. All part of the job. For full disclosure, this heroic NEXT was originally scheduled to debut next season."

On the screen behind Sam, the final segment of that afternoon's season finale rolls. While setting the scene here in the stadium, it also serves to catch any viewers up to speed who had changed the channel right after T'Challa's premature capture. A dark silhouette dives expertly from the closest helicopter, its edges likely fuzzed in post-prod.

"Fate clearly had other plans," Pepper laughs. "But better early than never, right?"

The next time Pepper restrains Sam for the sake of her precious ad spots, he vows to play her own words back at her on full volume. He puts a great deal of effort into thinking about this: which stream he could pull the sound bite from, then which of his audio-editing programs he should use to preserve it in the highest possible quality, and then how many backups he should make in case she isn't amused.

Because he'd rather not think about what’s going on here and now—the stadium full of people whooping as his onscreen self falls helplessly into that jerk’s outstretched arms. Like a damsel in distress. Object, not subject. Yuck.

...Never mind how the sudden embrace of those arms had taken Sam back, rewinding him at light speed to a paradise long lost. How that steady support had flooded his nerves, soaking into him like he'd sunk into a deliciously warm bath. How miraculously, improbably safe he'd felt in those too-brief moments.

None of that matters, he tells himself. In situations like these, Sam, a Hero, is supposed to be the hero. Okay? Okay. It's not his fault that the sensation of falling sometimes fucks with his—

“For this next part," Pepper continues, "I’d like to call up our newest Champion!” It’s a statement that draws more _ooh_ ing from the audience than the usual applause.

“Hey, everyone.” Steve flashes his patented wholesome grin at the instant outpouring from the crowd. “First, I want to thank you again for all your votes. It means everything to me that so many believe in the good work of Marvel Live. At the end of the day, our mission is to keep this city safe, so hearing your satisfaction is a real shot in the arm to me, and to my fellow Heroes.” He gives a quick nod over his shoulder. “None of us are perfect. But when times get tough—when we take bad hits, or make mistakes—it’s support from viewers like you that gives us the courage to get up and try again. Thank you, all of you, for not giving up on us. For having faith."

Steve's neck turns vivid red as the whole stadium breathes a touched sigh. Sam doesn't bother pretending those words don't tug at his own heart strings a teensy bit. Suckers, everyone on this damn planet _including him_ , suckers for baby-faced, speech-rehearsing, leg-day-skipping white boys—

"Just so all of you know, I begged the Star Media's President and Executive Producer to let me make this introduction personally." Steve waves to his bosses sitting a few yards away. "For the past few years, Marvel Live's Hero Academy has been my home away from home. Fingers crossed I'll figure out how to graduate this year!" Tepid laughter. "But it wouldn't have been that way without the man I'm about to invite up.”

Sam resists the urge to reach up behind his goggles and rub his tired, tired eyeballs. He's too sober for this, this whole thing, all of it.

“The decision to add this man to our roster has not been made lightly,” Steve continues. “Unlike me, he's already passed the gauntlet that is the Academy, and with flying colors. His scores are top notch, among the best in the program's history. Rest assured, he knows what he's doing.”

 _Called it._ The guy falls directly under hotshot in the dictionary. _T minus ten minutes til 'rock star' gets dropped—_

"Moreover, he's no stranger to Sternbild's level of crime.” Steve takes a deep breath before going on, now in a lower, quieter voice. He has every member of the audience on the edge of their seats. “His parents were murdered in their home when he was ten years old.”

“No _shit_ ,” Sam blurts out on reflex. But even if he were sporting a lavalier, the ear-splitting shrieks and gasps of the spectators would doubtlessly subsume any sound he could make. Whoever this honor student was, he’d shown up to the party with a Batman-tier origin story? Oh, if Sam could only hear the inside of Pepper’s head at this moment.

Because whatever is in there has got to be more bearable than the maelstrom of ugly ghouls circling his own mind right now. Anything would be better than this, this aching grip of sorrow on his stomach. It's too familiar a flavor to deny. His bones creak as they go brittle, his joints protesting as every shred of Sam's willpower is spent to keep from sinking, sick, to the ground.

Ten years old. Ten. He’d be younger than Ril—

“Since that day, my friend has dedicated his life to one cause: preventing tragedies like the one he witnessed.” Steve’s profile is a crisp silhouette against the searing stage lights, inscrutably graphic. "When Star Media got wind of my friend’s goal, its president, Alexander Pierce, knew he had to do everything in his power to help him reach it.”

A peculiar buzzing engulfs Sam then, numbing the maelstom in his head to nothing. It melds into him, clouding his vision until all light and shadow are blurred. He's suffocating.

 _No. Fight it._ He has a job to do. Remember?

"And so it is with unending pride, hope, and respect that I present to you the newest Hero to join our lineup.” Steve grips the podium, puffing his chest out and lifting his chin high. "Please give a warm welcome to my dear friend, James Buchanan Barnes!”

The president had called him by his first name, Sam remembers as the stadium around him ignites.

Red spotlights now whisk about the stage, frigid mist blooms from the floor-embedded effect machines, and the LED edge-piping at Sam’s feet gleams with swirling sheens of molten steel. Logos of Stryker®, Genentech,® and— _huh_ —Star Media® flare on the holoscreen overhead. Sam sees without hearing, as though someone had hit the mute button in his head. But only when the man in question struts through the billowing curtains do his senses go into overdrive.

This Hero gracing the stage now is a wholly different person from that afternoon's sullen maverick. He appears confident—relaxed, even—as he tromps forward, carrying a heavy-duty dartgun whose barrel rests jauntily on the shoulder of that—that incredible left arm, stamped on the deltoid with Star Media's red logo. That same arm that had slipped under Sam's legs only hours ago. The backs of his knees tingle at the memory, despite his valiant efforts to stifle it.

But, _God._ Sam’s never wanted to check a machine out so badly in his life. While lacking the rose-gold glamour of Misty’s, the arm's metallic casing does match that of Barnes’ dartgun, gleaming silver in striking contrast to his black costume. His textbook badass costume. Bulletproof vest. Combat boots. Flatteringly tight leather. Sam had always hated the edgy tacticool aesthetic that had so pervaded Hollywood as of late.

This is not good.

Barnes' grumpy frown from before is now a crooked grin, a slight one. Sam can already hear the postshow character commentary: he's not utterly thrilled to be here, it says, but he'll finish what he started this afternoon, and with panache. His shaggy dark hair has since been styled to frame his face perfectly, that squared jaw and those artfully stubbled jowls and his—Sam swallows—his naturally pouty lips. That same black domino mask still accentuates his sharp eyes. His stormy blue-gray eyes, now that Sam’s really looking, like twin typhoons.

This is _not good._

“Thank you, Sternbild,” are James Buchanan Barnes’ first official words as a Hero. His voice is just as velvety and soft as it had sounded that afternoon, not that Sam cares. But it's just low enough that many spectators unconsciously lean forward in their seats. “It’s an honor to join the ranks of Marvel Live's Heroes tonight. The road here hasn’t been an easy one, but there’s no place I’d rather be right now. I very much look forward to helping these great people—” He gestures to the Heroes behind him. “—bring peace to Sternbild, once and for all. But that’s something not one of us up here can do alone. Not without your help.”

Lightning and thunder rage over this frothing sea of open mouths. A direct call for viewer participation? _What’s this dude up to…?_

“Yes, I lost my parents to a horrific attack here in the city. But they were only two victims, when we know for a fact that there are dozens, if not hundreds more in their number.” Barnes takes a deep breath, lowering his gun away from his shoulder. He had not once looked toward the teleprompter. Instead his gaze had seemed, at least to Sam, pointed inward. “They were taken out by the crime syndicate known as HYDRA.”

Screaming, shouting, blood draining away, into the sewers, all of it. Even Sam has to admit his own veins had run cold in that instant. _HYDRA._ Now there’s a word he’d like to never hear again. It’s not for a lack of trying, but not in a millennium had Sam expected to hear that name dropped on MARVEL LIVE. 

Few things make it into Hero domain beyond NEXT-level perps or large-scale disasters. Fires, bomb threats, hostage situations. Blue-glowing lone wolves looking for their fifteen minutes. Imminent threats, if generally dire.

But unraveling century-old crime rings? Straight up FBI shit. Even the Academy-schooled Heroes know to leave such intensive finessing to the full-time detectives. And yet—

“I’ve spent my whole life investigating their operations,” Barnes continues, “working closely with the FBI, CIA, ATF and Interpol. But all the trails have gone cold, and these victims’ cases remain unsolved. It’s clear that I can’t do this on my own. That none of us can.”

Sam bemusedly shakes his head. _Guess there’s a first time for everything._

“So. From this point forward, I ask anybody watching to share any information they may have regarding HYDRA. If anybody knows anything, notices anything, sees anything…” That crooked grin returns. “DM me.”

Sam's ears fall off. He’s deaf now. Three different people attempt rushing the stage. Someone's literally crytyping in the fourth row. _Just drop the mic_ , Sam wants to holler over the hurricane of voices assaulting him from all sides, _just—fucking—throw it into the audience, man, c’mon—life's too short—_

Barnes does not drop the mic. Instead he hands it nonchalantly back to Pepper, who looks ready to start filming Season 13 immediately. “James Buchanan Barnes, everyone!”

“What the hell,” Rhodey hisses to Sam, reading his unspoken thought like a kid’s storybook. Basic phonetics, here. Clauses, not sentences. All larger-order thought processes are out.

Because that man's full name had been revealed, twice, on the most-watched live show on the planet. After he’d picked a fight with the world’s most notorious crime syndicate. You do the math.

“Does he want to get assassinated?” Wanda’s chronic anxiety has a tell—how she kneads her hands together just so, her elbows bent into sixty-degree angles. "Tortured?"

“Maybe it’s not his real name,” Monica whispers. “Or he’s like Stark, y’know? Got a secure house, defense matrix, all that.”

“They never go straight for the Heroes, Mo.” Okay, family was clearly out in this case, but— “Any friends he’s got—any known allies—that’s who he just got targeted.”

“Well, I know who’s not coming to poker night,” Rhodey grumbles. “I give him two weeks. Let’s go shake his hand while we still can.”

“Aight.”

Clint had joined the rest of the retired Heroes in the front row (and, Sam notes with a rumbling stomach, had already passed that pizza box around), so Sam is the last in line to greet Barnes. The devil himself had planned it that way, obviously, to ice him in front of ninety thousand people plus the millions more watching on TV. Like he hasn't been made enough of a fool today already.

Sam watches as Steve pulls Barnes into a staggering bear hug, as T'Challa graciously clasps his hand between theirs, as Janet pecks his cheek, as Rhodey and Monica opt for quick handshakes, with Wanda following suit—all as though in slow motion. His limbs seem to move despite the protests of his head. Watching is all he can do, it seems. The devil had snuck Sam onto this roller coaster, one he’s far too short to ride.

Again time warps, stretching and contorting, until it's gone in a flash and they're together.

"Hey," Barnes mutters, extending a hand for the first time that night. The flesh hand. He's not lavaliered either, Sam notes. All show, no tell. Fine with him.

Sam says nothing, keeping his jaw steeled. _Get it over with, and then you can party_. Then you're free.

Reach. Clasp. Shake once, firmly. Let go. Ignore how that warm hand had lingered, those thick fingertips just brushing the sensitive skin of his palm. _Ignore it_ , I said.

No, see, he's already done, pivoting in place to return to his spot. Done. _That wasn't so b—_

"Not so fast, Falcon!" Pepper is sauntering his way with the microphone. Oh, boy. Oh, jeez. They had so not rehearsed this. "Anything you'd like to say to the man who saved your life today?"

On instinct Sam checks the nearest teleprompter. _Phew_. "What else is there to say, Pep? The man is..." The devil's begun sucking on his tongue. "...my _hero!"_   May he rot in the ground.

The audience cracks up. All that's missing is a fucking rimshot. Why in God's name had Sam not more thoroughly pregamed this shit...? Oh, right, his terms of employment. Those.

"That's good to hear," Pepper hums into the mic, "seeing as you two are about to spend quite some time together!"

Oh, fuck no. Sam pulls his classic smile up as a defense mechanism as the crowds begin to drone. He squints at the teleprompter. _What's that supposed to mean, Pepper?_ it reads. _What in-fucking-deed, Pepper?_ No, rest assured—Sam, A Professional, says the correct words in the correct order without missing a beat.

“You see,” Pepper replies, “we could not help but notice the instant attraction between you two. It seemed—dare I say it—magnetic?” More boisterous laughter this time. Sam feels his stomach implode. “Might that have something to do with both of your NEXT powers?”

Sam plants his hands on his hips. _[PIQUED CURIOSITY] Both of our powers?  _he’s supposed to ask. "What exactly is happening here?” he croaks instead as the world begins to churn beneath his feet. Even Professionals have limits. Lines. Things of that nature.

Pepper gives him a reptilian stare over her pearly teeth. “What's happening, Falcon? Why, Mr. Barnes’ NEXT, believe it or not—” She faces the crowd, lifting one hand for maximum impact. “—is the exact same one as yours.”

 _[GASP.]_   Sam allows himself to raise his eyebrows. The audience buzzes, with the front few rows looking upward, so there’s probably something happening on the holoscreen behind him. He can guess that _machinomancy_ or _technopathy_ or some other focus group-approved term has appeared upon it in sharp-edged metallic text, plus a cross-sectional graphic of that arm.

But as he glances to the live feedback screen next to the teleprompter, Sam is surprised to see two different animations rolling at once, side by side: the arm, sure enough—and one of his own wings. The silhouettes are overlaid with false schematics of pulsing wires and sparking motherboards. Metal and electricity working in tandem, the two requisites for his active NEXT power to work. One or the other’s no good. Sam isn't Wanda's actual father, and he's certainly no Mighty Thor™. Therefore, neither must be Barnes.

“And as such,” Pepper goes on, “we find ourselves in an unprecedented situation here at Marvel Live. Two Heroes with the same power making the same roster? What are the odds?”

Sam is so fired. Fuck whatever that toady had mentioned about his new digs, new suit, whatever. Shit, Sam's new suit is probably Gucci, or Versace, a nice little going-away present for his certain retirem—

"And so, I am pleased to give you…" Pepper grabs ahold of Barnes' flesh arm and yanks him over to stand flush with Sam. "Marvel Live's first-ever Hero partners—Falcon and Barnes!"

_What. What. What._

As the audience loses their absolute shit, as Sam's own head dissolves into white static, he can nonetheless feel himself beaming. The very skin of his face is treacherously playing it all up. His own backstabbing hand waves high in the air. This he can do in his sleep. Easy money.

He can feel the closeup shot encroaching. Probably Camera B. His free hand automatically lands on that _fucking_ rookie's shoulder, and his lower-order processing informs him that Barnes' right hand is pressing gently into the small of his back. It says all sorts of other stuff, too, but Sam bleaches that shit out.

Because if he does pay enough attention, his interstitial level of tar-like loathing might just fizzle into death. And if that washes away, then he’ll be left only with the—whatever's going on deep in his core, surging and hot. That shit.

Sam feels the blood rushing to his face and renews his waving with extra exuberance, praying that his stage makeup holds up. He can smile and wave. He can do that. Shoot, he gets paid to do that.

“Thanks again to our loyal viewers for an incredible evening!” Pepper gives the standard closing remarks before the TV-only script cuts off. The cameras continue to roll, likely for the Season 12 Limited Edition Box Set. Ticket-Holders had been promised exclusive info, Sam can guess.

Next, the president takes the podium, his faded gold hair shining like a halo in his spotlight. “Hello, again, all of you present with us tonight at this most unusual Crowning! Ha, yeah, I’ll say. Now, for an exclusive look at our first super-duo's costume designs. These are still preliminary, so by all means give us your thoughts. You all know the drill—what’s the hashtag? Oh— _FnBCostumes_ , yes, thank you, Pepper.”

Sam turns bodily toward the massive screen. Ass to camera, taboo, even though he'd have a much better view looking forward to the feedback screen. He’ll take any excuse to break free from the warm press of Barnes’ hand.

 _No more._ He’s not equipped for this.

Which is just as well, as two tactical suits suddenly appear onscreen. They revolve slowly for a full 360 degree view, their armored plates gleaming—wait. Armor? Actual armor. No more bruises all over his body, then, no matter how quickly they would inevitably heal. _Took y’all long enough._

Sam’s new suit also boasts SpaceX-grade internal padding, eezo currents that enable his NEXT to passively thicken the plating in case of high impact, and a dedicated parachute! There's the rimshot.

 _Laugh while you still can, twerps_. In this new getup, Sam is so gonna be the next Champion.

Barnes’ new costume matches his by the design of its obsidian-hued undersuit and plate trimming. However, Sam's plates are acid green where Barnes' are burgundy, and Sam's has latches for his wingpack while Barnes' entire left sleeve is missing. Makes sense, Sam supposes; a dense metal prosthetic has to provide better protection than mere Kevlar.

He tries not to remember how three-quarters of that prosthetic, starting from the fingertips, is not just casing.

Nor does he humor that itching sensation at the back of his head, the desperate clawing of nails against his brain. It’s a warning, whatever it is, a flash of red from yesteryear. Sam's had enough of those to last a lifetime. _Begone._

“Since Barnes is new to the scene,” the president continues, “he’ll have to count on Falcon for valuable guidance. Remember, Falcon has been in the program for eight action-packed years. He knows his way around a bunch of bad guys.” _Oh, you bet your geriatric ass he does, Prez._ “But Barnes might just have a few tricks up his own sleeve!”

Swell. So Sam gets to be the sagelike mentor while this rookie scoops up a huge fanbase, probably more screentime. Unquestionably better promo deals.

Not that Sam’s complaining. Not aloud. It could be worse. He could be out of a job. Isn't that worse?

 _Do your job, superhero._ Riley's voice. Wheezing. Wet. _Do your j-job._

It is still the same job, Sam assures himself as he bats away that—that noise. No, see, he'll still be saving people. That's what matters. He'll still be making Sternbild a safer place. Just, while babysitting the planet's softest target. With all of HYDRA behind the scope.

It'll all be fine. Right?

“Will these two form a functional partnership despite their differences?” The president beams their way. “Or will the forces of chaos prevail? Find out next month, with the Marvel Live season thirteen premier!” At once the audience swells, some clapping, others heading out to beat the traffic. “Thank you again for coming out tonight! What a show. Goodnight, goodnight.” Cue the credit sequence.

Rhodey strafes towards Sam as the Heroes wave the audience off. “Jesus, Wilson.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam keeps his chin up. How had Rhodey himself put it just last night? “My kingdom for a cheap ratings boost.” Even if this one feels far from cheap.

Barnes briefly glances between them, his eyes narrowed. “You wanna say that to my face?”

“Uh-uh-uh. Keep waving, rookie. You’re still on the clock.” The smile on Sam's face now almost feels genuine.

Barnes huffs and looks resolutely away from him. Gone is that crooked grin.

After the Heroes finish their photo shoot with the sponsors and president, Pepper ushers them backstage to switch outfits. “Party time, kids. Hop to it.”

"Pep." Sam gives her a look as he massages his shoulder.

"Sam!" To his surprise, Pepper pulls him into a full hug. The metal of her golden bodice chills his front by a good ten degrees on contact. "I knew you'd ace it! I knew it!"

"You know I'd ace what?" _Kissing the new kid’s ass on live television?_ Nonetheless he gives Pepper a light pat on the back. He hasn't forgotten about that meeting tomorrow morning, the one with her and Pierce and the rest of his new sponsors. No, ma’am. "Looking like somebody's lost grandpa for ten minutes?"

Pepper gently holds his face in her hands and presses their foreheads together. "You two," she gleefully stage-whispers, “are going to net us _so much money!”_   Now there's the ex-arms dealer that Sam knows and loves. "No, you’ve been a great sport, Sam. I completely understand if you're miffed about having to improv. It came out of nowhere for me, too, so you can only imagine the thrashing I gave Alex earlier. But I promise that’s the last time we go off-script." She strokes his cheek. _"So much money,_ Sam."

“You promise that’s the end of the surprises?” Sam asks as they head backstage. “Nothing hiding in my dressing room?" He can sense Barnes following behind them by precisely four steps. Creep ass. Best just to ignore him for the time being. "Or—wait, let me guess—brand new motorbike waiting for me outside? I’m feeling Rookie over here could do some serious damage from a sidecar.” Now there’s a mental image. On second thought, he shoots an angelic smile Barnes' way, just in time to catch his look of utter revulsion. _Ding ding ding._

Pepper snorts. "Do us both a favor and save some of that charm for the Gala. I’ll see you there. This way, James." Off she trots. Barnes launches one final glare over his shoulder before Pepper yanks him around the corner.

Sam resolves to dash for the bar the instant his interviews are done.

* * *

About 35,200 results (0.46 seconds)

LIVE Red Carpet Snaps: Marvel’s Newest Heroic Hottie **James** Buchanan **Barnes**  
_ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY – 21 seconds ago_

MARVEL LIVE Hero **James** B. **Barnes** : “DM me” with any HYDRA evidence, tips  
_ESPN – 4 minutes ago_

 **James** **Barnes** Confirmed Survivor of 1953 Home Invasion, Arson, Double Homicide, Kidnapping  
_ASSOCIATED PRESS – 7 minutes ago_

* * *

Of course Wilson pulls up to the red carpet on a fucking motorcycle. Sans sidecar.

Barnes prefers heavier-duty rides—personally, he's a cruiser fanboy—so scoffing at the sporty model between Wilson’s legs comes naturally to him. But now he regrets immensely not having shown up on his own bike. Instead he'd clambered out of a boring convertible with Pepper and the President like a teenybopper.

He's supposed to be the big news, isn't he? Let the has-been ride in the old people car.

Even more irritating is how good Wilson looks in that jacket—deep gray satin, the slim lapels overlaid with metallic red lace—and in those slick red-lensed sunglasses that so elegantly accentuate his cheekbones. Or how smoothly he throws an arm around the hotel’s valet, free-throwing him the keys like they’ve done it a hundred times before (had they?). How the fans beyond the police barriers all holler his Hero name, even as the reporters largely ignore him in favor of Steve and Black Panther and—speaking of which—

“—thoughts on the crowd here tonight?” Barnes’ interviewer has been trying to get a quote from him for the past fortnight.

 “Uh. Sorry, c’you repeat?"  Just the poor lady's luck that Wilson had arrived during her turn. _Count your blessings,_ he could tell her. _At least he's not still wearing that_ —that outfit. With the damn cutouts.

Yet again the images of Wilson kissing Steve, of him pressing his cheek against Black Panther's, floods his head. Not that it's his business. It's not. He doesn't even know the guy. Doesn't—he's— _God—_

"I said," the reporter slowly intones, "since it's your first official reception as a Hero, Mister Barnes, what are your thoughts on the many celebrities attending? Particularly those not affiliated with Marvel Live or the Sternbild DOJ?"

"Uh." Fuck. "Well, these people, they're all rich, right?" _Think think think—_ "Justice isn't cheap."

 _ABORT ABORT ABORT_ flashes in the journalist's eyes. “You’re, erm, right about that! Speak of the devil, there Tony is—have a good one, now—” Off she runs to the _loud_ Audi that had pulled up behind Wilson’s bike. To Barnes’ surprise, another journalist does not immediately take her place, as had occurred the last... how many times? He’d lost count. Either way, thank hell.

Barnes begrudgingly makes his way into the crowded ballroom of the Sternbild Plaza Hotel. No matter which way he tugs his collar, his suit jacket still rubs vexingly against the back of his neck. But the President orders him to mingle and he mingles.

That said, after all his intensive training in martial arts, firearms, combat driving, aeronautics and information technology, he’s embarrassed to report that the damn flashbulbs are getting the best of him. _How have none of these people gone blind?_ It's a perfect situation for an attack, all these vision-compromised Heroes and so many big shots in one poorly-guarded vicinity.

"Mister Barnes! Mister Barnes! A quick photo with your Academy professor?"

 _Yes._ Barnes glances about—sure enough, there's Nat, slinking their way in a black mermaid gown and lacy masquerade mask. "Uh, sure thing."

"Hey, soldier." The retired Hero wraps one arm around his waist once she reaches the stage. It’s one of three designated photo op stations, backed with a crimson _MARVEL LIVE_ ® and _Star Media_ ® step ‘n repeat. "Told you you'd do fine."

"Time'll tell on that one." _Click click click_ ow. Worse, half a dozen more photographers have taken advantage of their frozen poses to get in position. Barnes gets that they must make for a killer photo, he and Nat, but shouldn't he be signing a press waiver first?

"How's it feel to be on the Hero roster? Was the famous Black Widow your favorite Academy instructor?"

"Should you really be bringing your own vendetta to Marvel Live? Do you not foresee an imminent conflict of interests?"

"Are you still traumatized from losing your parents? Will you be alright fighting on air?"

"Will the other Heroes be able to depend on you in a pinch? What about your new partner?"

"Miss Widow," pipes a blonde in a veiled fascinator, "is that gown Ferragamo? Mister Barnes, your tux?"

"He's elated," Nat croons, the barest tinge of irony cracking her voice, "I'm everyone's favorite, James will discuss the incident at tomorrow’s press conference, and, yes, Ferragamo. James?"

"Uh." Barnes' head of course picks that instant to cloud over with red, blistering rage.

It’s been thirty-two minutes since he got here and he is already sick and tired of people asking unending variations of _will he be alright_ , or, worse, assuming otherwise.

He knows that the writers have emotive pandering quotas to hit. It wouldn’t be fair to take his frustration out on the poor journos who'd drawn their offices' short straws. They'd all had to camp out for hours just to hear him mutter.

But, hell. _Do none of you any faith?_

The rest of the questions he doesn’t mind nearly as much. But he’d answered the same ones outside, and, worse, he hadn’t paid attention to any of the labels on his suit. Someone had just left this stuff on his dressing table. "I—I’m not sure which—"

"Falcon!” another reporter suddenly calls. “Mister Falcon! Sir!" The revelation ripples through the press until a pair of interns break to guide the Hero over from the bar. "A photo with your new partner? Thank you, Miss Black Widow, ma’am—"

Barnes' heart threatens to bust loose from his chest as Wilson steps up. Not before draining his lowball. If he’d intentionally appeared to rescue Barnes from the 24-hour news cycle, his face doesn’t reflect it.

But half a moment later Wilson’s all startling halogen beams as he trades places with Nat, like someone had flipped his power switch without warning him beforehand. An unnatural light source, this, flickering and cold. Barnes feels a shiver run down his spine.

 _Don't leave me_ , he mouths to Nat. It’s taking most of his willpower not to rip his own suit off. His cuffs are nearly as itchy as his collar, and his dress shirt is doing the opposite of breathing. Either Wilson has a passive NEXT power that evolved purely to torment him, or he’s, uh.

Nat cracks up at his expression and plants a quick kiss on Wilson's cheek. "You two have fun. Watch him, Wilson. He's a fiend." She kisses Barnes' cheek next, and whispers one word in his ear. _Boss?_ Oh. He tugs at his tie and considers the merits of auto-asphyxiation.

"You're telling me," Wilson murmurs under his breath as he throws one arm around Barnes' waist. “Miracle he hasn’t caused another scene yet."

Barnes absolutely knows he could be the bigger man here, could pretend he isn't affronted by what's probably a thoughtless jest, could easily go on keeping his own trap shut. "You wanna clarify?" he asks through his teeth.

"Hm? You say something?"

Oh, for crying out— "Look, if there's a problem here, you can tell me. I'm just following orders. That’s all." God, his face hurts.

"You and me both, rookie." Wilson pulls him even closer for the last few photos, his smile outshining the flashbulbs. "You and me both."

Barnes isn’t sure what’s worse: how tight Wilson’s grip is, or how he’s wishing that grip were even tighter. His eternal hunger for sensation must be so deep-set, Barnes realizes with a jolt, that he’d never actually considered it a bad thing. It had simply been his normal, his default state, and now he can’t ever go back.

Rather, he can think of many, many worse ways to die than from Wilson squ— _hey!_

Now he’s power-walking to keep up with Wilson before he can disappear into the throngs of Gala attendees. No matter how many other people Barnes brushes against, the airy lack of pressure where Wilson’s arm had been seems to taunt him. "I get that this was out of nowhere,” he goes on. “I get it. But, seriously—"

Then Barnes halts in his tracks as a massive entourage, all in black silks and gold-plated accessories, parts to engulf Wilson. The tallest of them stands furthest back, leaning languidly against a thick marble pillar with their arms folded. "Look who managed free up his evening after all.”

"Anything for you, baby." Wilson clinks his champagne flute against the cocktail glass held by none other than T'Challa Udaku, CEO of Wakanda Power®—the Black Panther's presenting sponsor. Their net worth alone hits somewhere near 90 trillion SBD, if Barnes recalls correctly. "Where's Ororo at?"

"My electric lady? Micromanaging." They jerk their head toward the ballroom's second floor catwalks, where even more photographers are making Barnes regret every one of his life choices. "One would think a CMO could delegate little chores like shot direction."

"A scrub CMO, maybe." Wilson's voice drops to a whisper. "Who's playing Panther tonight?"

T'Challa nods to the Black Panther, who's gladhanding about in a dark suit, purple and gold silk scarf, and his evening-dress Hero mask, also trimmed in gold. "Sweet B'Tumba begged for the honor this time around."

Wilson looks the Hero over. "That scarf legit Ikiré Jones?"

"San Michael de les Maasai," replies T'Challa with a soft smile. "I lent it to him solely for the occasion, so he's under blood oath not to spill anything on it."

"Haaa. No wonder he's not drinking."

"It's one reason. The poor boy’s been practicing the Panther's gait for a month, but his legs are two inches too short. We got custom boots fitted for him, just in case.” T’Challa sips their drink, casting their gaze about the packed ballroom. “Worth it. Watch him go."

As Wilson gives an impressed whistle, Barnes freezes. _That's not actually Black Panther under the mask?_ Who the hell could his alter ego be to merit that huge of a security play?

An instant later, it clicks, and Barnes' head comes close to exploding. Somehow, some way, the Black Panther is _self-sponsored_. An Olympian feat of logistics, Barnes thinks as his bones run cold. He snaps his jaw shut, suddenly desperate for a drink, and even more desperate to not be caught staring in awe at T'Challa like a rescued schoolgirl.

 _How the hell have they been running that huge of a company while being a Hero at the same time?!_   Either way— "That's genius," he mutters to himself.

T'Challa glances his way for the first time. "It's not an uncommon tactic. Stark's used high-heeled loafers since before he joined the roster."

"Now that explains everything." Wilson snorts. "What's he, five-two? The only one shorter’d have to be—"

"Five-seven," T'Challa chides. "Don't do Rhodes dirty like that. If he heard you…"

"Then he'd wanna punch me in the face, 'cept he'd need a stepladder to reach it."

Barnes bites his lips to keep from laughing aloud. He’s not about to give Wilson any satisfaction. Not until he comes clean about whatever’s shoved up his ass.

Instead he looks away, only to become enraptured again by T'Challa's stunning crew. All women, all black, all gorgeous, all eyes open. Against the din of the other partygoers, their vigil seems laser-focused. _Is this an afterparty or a hunting party?_

"Your new partner looks lost," T'Challa murmurs over their cocktail glass. Barnes doesn’t miss that instant of cool calculation dulling their eyes. For a terrifying instant Barnes becomes unbearably self-conscious. _Do they—know—?_   "Do introduce us."

"Barnes, look sharp." After draining his drink, Wilson leans back to whisper over his shoulder to Barnes. "T'Challa here is the highest-scoring Hero of all time, and they're just now hitting their stride." He clears his throat, raising it to his normal level. "Just don't go around yelling it. Got a bunch of laypeople in attendance."

"I know," Barnes scoffs, then catches himself. "It's an honor," he adds, shaking T'Challa's hand (for the second time that evening?). "Looking forward to, uh, a good run." What else is he supposed to say? _Why couldn't you have given me a script for this?_

Just one more question for the President, to be thrown into the incinerator with the rest.

T'Challa beckons over their masked double for a group vid. "In, both of you. Okoye, snap us. Someone, get the Falcon another drink—there we are. Ready?" They bat their curled eyelashes at the phone camera. "So I'm enjoying myself with the one and only Black Panther at the Crowning Gala," they proclaim, "and who should appear but the first ever Hero partners? Say hello, you two."

"What up, Sternbild," Wilson pipes as the decoy Panther throws up two claws. Barnes does his best to mouth a coherent greeting. The phone is a crystal-clear holoslate, and Barnes can discern how his own reflected face looks easily enough. Just like that, Okoye signals cut and waves them away before captioning the vid with rapid-fire typing.

"Perfect. You know what we need? Shots. Aneka, please—wonderful." A tray appears, filled to the brim with sparkling red libations in frosted shotglasses. The rest of the entourage indulges as well as the Heroes. Barnes watches, mystified, as T'Challa trades glasses with the woman to their left. "To a record-breaking season, and many more to come."

"Salud." Wilson tosses his shot back like water.

Barnes begrudgingly imbibes the stuff. It tastes like a blood orange roasted over a tire fire.

"How's Shuri?" Wilson asks T'Challa as they switch to highballs. Again a bodyguard sips T'Challa's drink before handing it off. Barnes reaches for a champagne flute, mostly to blend in. As vices go, he prefers smoke to alcohol, but he’ll welcome any kind of downer at this point.

"Her attorney's making moves with the Klaue litigation," T’Challa replies with a frown. "Too preoccupied to make it tonight, unfortunately."

"That's bullshit. The OC trying to freeze the mediation, or—?"

"Better. The defendant insisted on going to trial."

"Head-ass move of the year." Wilson clinks his glass against T'Challa's. "To Shuri's just recovery."

"And to Miss Rila's health." Again they turn up, with Wilson actually finishing his drink in one go. Barnes can't believe any of it. And just who the hell is Rila?

...none of his business, that's who. Barnes huffs and tries to distract himself. He has got to distract himself, ASAP. "So," he murmurs to Okoye as she types, "uh, fun party. It's, uh."

"I'm working." She doesn't look up.

 _Got it._ Barnes swallows and looks around the crowd, straining his eyes for a familiar face. Steve's barely visible in a sea of photographers. Nat's dancing vivaciously with her blonde girlfriend. But even if Pierce and Pepper weren’t both engaged in conversations, Barnes could honestly do without talking to either of them right now.

"I look all over the damn property for you," a clipped tenor suddenly complains, "you're not answering your phone, no one knows where to point me to, and of course it's because the usual suspect is hogging your ass—"

"Rude." Wilson reaches out for the speaker, a man far shorter than he in crisp Air Force dress blues, tasteful diamond earrings and mechanized leg braces. Wraparound sunglasses on, indoors? He's got to be a Hero. Only, Barnes can't pin the guy to save his life. Again that stretch of his ribs tingles as Wilson squeezes Mystery Hero tight in the same spot. Not that Barnes would readily switch places with the guy or anything. No he would not. "Y'all both know I got enough ass to go around."

Thank hell Barnes had just finished his champagne, or he'd have spouted over the whole group. _Who just says shit like that?_

“Okay, fellas, afterparty plans. Go.” Mystery Hero intercepts Wilson’s next drink with ninja-like reflexes.

"Hey!"

“Too slow.” Shorty blows him a kiss. "I vote not Sam's place. Unless he's found time to tidy up?"

"That's a no." Wilson makes to swipe his drink back from Mystery Hero, to no avail. "T'Challa?"

“I can offer the downtown office,” T’Challa hums. "Not far from here, no risk of gatecrashers, no paparazzi. The conference room bar's fully stocked.” Again they nod toward the second floor. “Ororo, bless her, she’ll need something for her spirits—"

"After today’s sorry turn of events,” Wilson finishes for them with a frown. Is Barnes projecting, or had Wilson glanced his way...?

“C’we bring guests?” Mystery Hero’s already finished Wilson’s drink. “You two've got to meet Carol. I know she’d be down. The lady could bloody drink us under the table ‘n still conduct a flight check after.”

“Exquisite. Call her up.” To Barnes’ surprise, T’Challa looks right at him, their deep eyes glimmering in anticipation. “Sam. Why not bring along—?” Wilson’s opened his mouth in indignation— “Hear me out! What if he—”

"Bucky!"

 _Phew_.  Barnes turns in place to find Steve approaching fast in his SSR dress uniform and Ray-Bans. _See,_ Barnes could proclaim between jazz hands, _Wilson's not the only popular kid here._ He has friends, too. Well, friend. "Hey. Press finally let you go?"

"After pledging them my firstborn." Steve's quick smile falters a moment later. "Heard some of them were getting kinda pushy on you. Are you doing okay? Need me to get you anything?"

Barnes rolls his eyes. "It's fine. All part of the job, yeah? Might as well get used to it." Hell, he hadn't even started day one of his job yet. _Still on offseason, remember?_

"I'm serious, Buck. Don't be afraid to take a time out if you need to. I know Pep'll understand." Steve looks him over as though to troubleshoot. "You know what, I'm gonna talk to Pierce. No clue what he was thinking, throwing you into all this with no warning. Did he even ask you if you were okay with the rescheduling?"

"Of course he did." Barnes feels his stomach churning.  _Not you, too—just let me be—_ "Don't bug him, Steve. Please."

"Bucky."

"Steve. If you really cared—"

"You know I care!"

"Excuse me, Cap." Barnes starts as a hand lands on his shoulder, tugging him close. Wilson's hand. Wilson, whose voice tremors with a glee surely sending up tidal waves on Neptune. "What exactly d’you just call this guy?"

Oh, Christ. Barnes glares Steve’s way in consternation, but as always his beloved friend is utterly oblivious. "Bucky? It’s just his nickname. Short for Buchan—"

 _"Bucky._ " Wilson slowly sounds out both syllables, his expression downright dreamlike, as though he's savoring them. No, that couldn't be it. The guy's buzzed. That's all. "Bucky Barnes. Oh, _Steve_ , my birthday's not 'til—"

"Enough," Barnes attempts to growl. Instead his voice falters, with his words dribbling out like a desperate plea. He is begging. He is, uh. He's.

"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. Way better than rookie." Wilson's begun stroking his shoulder blade with his thumb. "Nothing more heroic than good old-fashioned name alliteration. Bucky Barnes, Savior of Sternbild. _Damn._ "

"Ha." Steve thumps Barnes on the back. "And here I was worried you two wouldn't hit it off."

"Us, not hitting it off?" Wilson loosens a breath of scoffing laughter. "Hey, Bucky—do me a solid 'n tell your pal just how close we're—uh—"

"What's there to tell?" titters Mystery Hero as he leans mirthfully against Wilson. "Or's that the bourbon talking?"

"Psh." Wilson lowers his head, laughing breathlessly into the ground. He still hasn't let go of Barnes. Barnes, who could melt into his hand like a caught snowflake.

Something about Wilson's voice, saying his—his real name. _That's me—that's me you're—that you're—_

Not at all helping is how close Wilson's mouth is. Crystal-clear, high fidelity soundwaves tickle Barnes' inner ear, all while Wilson's thumb continues brushing tenderly against his back, raising bumps on his skin, raising his pulse.

It's too much sensation at once. Too much to parse. Too many calculations to make, too many overlapping matrices—he's overheating. Overclocked. Melting could not feel more apt. Barnes feels—feels like he could—

That's _me_ , don't you understand, that's _me_ sitting on your tongue—it's— _I'm—_

His screen goes blue. “B-be right back.”

After somehow wresting his shoulder from Wilson's grip, his body’s ducking, twirling between party guests, diving headlong into his—his other self. The ghost. Not invisible so much as immaterial. He's gone.

Sometime later—how much later?—he finds himself on an exterior balcony. The door’s narrow windowpane is entirely frosted glass. It’s a designated smoking area, equipped only with a stone bench against the cold brick wall and an iron ashtray. Poorly-lit. Quiet. Good.

Barnes counts to ten, exhales, and looks out over the elaborately sculpted railing. He supposes the view is nice. But, truth be told, he’s never understood the appeal of Sternbild’s lurid skyline. Instead he gazes down toward the El tracks and automobile lanes, red and white strings of glowing beads pulled taut between the towers.

Something about all these people inching their way forward, slowly but surely making it to wherever they need to get—Barnes likes that idea. It soothes his nerves, the thought of such a dark world glimmering with tiny progressions. He shrugs out of that damned suit jacket and folds it over the balcony rail, then pulls a carton from its depths. Lights up, inhales, drifts. He's swimming.  _Much better._

But despite all his efforts, Wilson’s face still flickers through his head.

All the rules and teachings of the Academy had been hung on Hero cooperation. Sure, Heroes are rivals. But more important than the competition are two things: sponsors and safety. Sponsor management he’d gotten down quickly enough. Running the world’s most elite super-squad, as he’d put it earlier himself, was anything but cheap. Thrusting those expenses onto the backs of the public would be nothing short of cruel.

Paramount to profitability, however, is executing all ops with minimum collateral damage. That degree of care always requires teamwork—even amongst rivals—but especially between partners. It'd require on-the-fly, stealthy signaling. Intimate awareness of tics, habits, weaknesses. Mutual respect. Trust.

Just how is he supposed to trust a guy who won’t talk to him except to—?

BANG. “Assholes!”

 _Oh, brother._ Barnes freezes against the railing as Wilson stumbles out onto the balcony. Wilson just as quickly whips about and pounds one fist into the door—just after it slams shut behind him. By the sound of it, the other Heroes had locked him out. _Probably Steve’s idea._ He can detect that same set of leg braces beyond the door as well.

Barnes sighs and grinds his cigarette butt into the ashtray. “Lock’s electronic,” he mutters. “Just pull it apart.” Dumbass.

“Steve’s in front of the door,” Wilson replies— _(Called it.)—_ with one last resigned punch _._ A few heated seconds pass as his labored breathing slows. Then without warning he slumps onto the balcony’s lone bench. "Brat." After a beat he stretches out into a lounge, taking up the whole space.

 _Who's the brat?_ But Barnes keeps his gaze straight ahead. It’s not like he’d wanted to sit down or anything. Even though he was here first. No, remember, he’d only come out here to calm himself down. Well, he's perfectly calm now.

Maybe he could sweet-talk his way past Steve and his preschool-caliber prank. Maybe he could phone Nat for an emergency extraction. Maybe he could jump over this railing and spare them all his inexplicable mood swings.

He slaps himself internally at the thought. _Yeah, maybe not quite time to head back in yet._ The shit his head could spit out. He rubs his temples, then does a double-take. He's seeing things. Wilson's—Wilson's removing his sunglasses?

 _What._ Barnes' heart skips several beats in a row. This isn't real. This isn't happening.  _We just met—you don't know me—how can you—?_

And they’re off, folded neatly between Wilson’s hands in his lap.

What the _hell?_   Alter-ego security is—it's so basic a rule, so integral, something that should be so deeply ingrained, that—oh. Right. Barnes snaps his jaw shut. _Wilson didn’t go to the Academy._ Not even _Self-Defense 101._ This—this guy! The one idiot on this whole planet full of people he could have been paired with and—and—

His head flies everywhere at once. For all his fretting over intimacy, over trust, not once had he dreamt of anything remotely as forward as this, as what Wilson's entrusting him with now. The least, the _least_ he could do is to look.

He looks.

He needs—orders— _snap the wing—_ he fires. _BANG!_

He pulls, tight, nearly dislocating his own shoulder. But pain is not to be regarded.

Down EXO-7 plummets—looking his way now, just for a moment—vivid brown eyes flashing in the setting sun—he's diving, after—before he—his—

Wilson’s eyes are _gorgeous_. Barnes takes a step backward and flinches, feeling his lower back hit the top of the balcony railing. Sternbild, he tells himself. It’s 1978, he’s in Sternbild, not Pakistan, and Wilson has the most stunning pair of eyes he’s ever seen. Deep brown, nearly black, and shot through with amber in evanescent starbursts. The city’s unending lights dance over his pupils, jumping and disappearing as blinks. As his eyes trace over Barnes, flickering with uncertainty.

Barnes takes a deep breath. _No._ It’s not this guy’s fault that he reminds Barnes so much of—of whenever that had been. Pakistan. The Good Mission. That particular failure was no one’s fault except his own. The least he could do now is—well, he can think of one thing.

After slowly exhaling, after counting to ten and back, Barnes removes his mask.

Wilson keeps looking. Barnes can see a question burning in those lovely eyes, one or ten or a hundred thousand, he’ll never know. The din of the traffic far below lulls to a curious hush, an ocean’s shore of white noise here in the middle of Nebraska. Something heavy in his heart dislodges, falling cleanly away. What it had been, he cannot say.

“Okay.” Wilson nods, visibly swallowing, and slips his sunglasses back on. _Wait,_ Barnes so dearly wishes he could protest, _please—just a bit longer—_ like begging the sun not to set— “Okay. Hey, uh. We met before?”

 _I met you earlier this afternoon_. No, Barnes won’t waste energy being coy. “I dunno.” He doesn’t know. “Maybe.” It’s possible. “Where?” _When?_

“Beh. Forget it.” Wilson rests his head back on one hand and pulls out his phone, casting a blue-pink glow over most of his face. Two distorted rectangles gleam in his red lenses. “How long you think Rogers’ll wait out there?”

Barnes shrugs as he reapplies his mask. “How long you think it'll take the paparazzi to spot him?”

“Pfft.” Then, to his surprise, Wilson’s voice softens a tad. “I’m kinda mad I never thought of coming out here before. Not a bad little spot.” With that, the phone goes back into his pocket, plunging his half of the balcony back into shadow.

Barnes watches as, one by one, Wilson’s muscles unclench. Toes and knees dropping outward. Head tilting back. Deeper, slower breaths. Wilson’s chest rises and falls, rises and falls. Barnes feels his own eyelids drooping.

Some part of his head is malfunctioning, clearly, misattributing values left and right. It’s telling him he’d rather stay stuck out here, watching drying paint’s human cousin, than schmoozing with movie stars and politicians at one of the city’s grandest galas. One where he’s an effective guest of honor. His motherboard is unquestionably busted.

“Hey.” Wilson’s voice comes out a near-whisper. “You got another cigarette on you?”

Barnes knows that exactly five remain in his pack. "No."

Wilson chuckles, crossing one long leg over the other. “Worth a shot.”

Hmph. Barnes debates sitting on the balcony floor like a kindergartener. His feet aren’t tired. He’s good at standing. He’d just rather not be standing. Is that weird? It sounds weird, even inside the relative safety of his skull.

“You can have one,” he eventually sighs, “if you scoot over.”

Got him. Wilson’s mouth contorts just enough. A few seconds later he swings his legs off the bench before propping his right heel on the edge of the seat.

Barnes slumps into the narrow space feeling little short of victorious. He hands over one cigarette and pulls out another for himself. A good stretch of Wilson's left thigh is pressed against his right, but the man has made no show of budging any further. That gentle heat soaking through him now—well, he'll just have to deal with it.

“What d’you do,” Barnes asks, “when you need a break in the middle of filming?” The live-air shifts were hours long. No way would a NEXT-level villain cheerfully comply with a quick timeout from evading arrest. “Just power through it?”

“Nah, I’m not hooked or nothing.” Instead of asking Barnes for a light, Wilson begins to glow aqua. He opens his wristcomm's battery tray and elicits from it a series of minuscule sparks, until the cigarette hisses and blooms. “Not on nicotine.”

Huh. The Academy has a four-word stance on Heroes and substance abuse: Big Fucking No-No. “Do any of the others…?”

Wilson exhales a slow-moving cloud. “Stark’s probably still on his Vicodin kick. Pepper only sleeps two hours a day, God alone knows what she compensates with. You can't tell me Banner wasn't on some opioid or other. R—" He seems to catch himself. “You're gonna find that stuff out anyways, but—again—don't go hollering. Okay?”

 _Mostly the older contingent_ , Barnes notes, recalling Nat’s too-frequent vodka binges with a slight pang of—of something not fun. "Okay." He wonders how long it’ll be before he stumbles into a less-than-advisable coping method. He gives himself three weeks.

“Hey. Listen.” Wilson sits up a bit, nodding his head back and forth. Barnes tries not to stare at his tongue as it crosses over his teeth. “Thanks. For saving my ass earlier.”

Not at all what Barnes had been expecting. _Does he think he owes me for the cig?_   “You already thanked me. Don’t worry ab—”

“TV doesn’t count. Hell knows I’ve said shit on air that didn’t mean squat.” Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. What I mean is—I really mean it. Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I—I wouldn’t be here.”

Wilson’s acting skills are admittedly first-rate. Barnes struggles to maintain his poker face. “Whatever. I know I jumped the gun. The President said afterward he knew you would've pulled up.”

“Pierce said that?” Either Barnes is projecting or Wilson sounds perturbed. Not flattered. There’s a key difference, and that difference is—

“I should’ve trusted you,” Barnes finds himself muttering. The words burn in his throat, in his chest, more potent than any smoke. “Instead I messed up. Big time. I disobeyed direct orders, diving straight into footage I wasn’t cleared for. I’m sorry about that. If it happens again, I promise I’ll—”

“Please.” Wilson sharply exhales, sending two white jets gusting out. “Either Pierce knew something I didn’t, or…” The corners of his mouth twitch. “You sacrificed your debut for my dumb ass. I get that sounds ridiculous now, but first impressions are everything in this industry. So." Again he swallows. "Thank you."

Barnes lets those words sit in him. They do have a similar effect to the cigarettes, now that he thinks about it. They're flooding his veins with the same hot-cold thrumming sensation he’d used as a life raft his first raw months out of—after— _serrated blade at his—_ “An—anytime.”

“Pfft. Okay, okay. Uh.” Wilson tilts his head back to exhale another jet from his mouth. “Alright. S’get this over with. So. What’d you do before Hero Academy?”

Icebreakers, huh. Barnes licks his teeth. “Uh. Most of it’s—” He has a line for this. It’s somewhere in the back of his head, peeking out at him from behind the jungle of red ropes. “The President, uh. Made sure I went to school and everything. My parents left a college fund behind, but.” What’s the word? His brain is beyond scrambled— “Scholarship. Spent most of my time studying.”

A beat passes, as though Wilson had expected him to keep going. “That's—that’s it? Went to the Academy straight out of college? Because—no offense—you look a little—”

 _Older than that._ “Not, uh. Not straight out.” How many years would it have been? “I’m thirty-five now.”

“Bull _shit_.” Wilson looks him over, and again that tickle self-consciousness makes its way down every inch of Barnes’ skin, covered or no. _How’s he doing that?_ If he’s doing it. Gyargh— “I woulda guessed a decade under that. What’s your regimen?”

“What?”

“Your skinc—you know what, fuck it. TMI. Something else, uh—”

“Hey, you don’t get to ask two in a row.”

“Fine. Ask away." Wilson slumps back against his seat, his left arm still crossed over his right elbow. "Be warned, though, I'm boring as all get out."

 _No doubt._ They hadn’t even laid out ground rules, Barnes thinks, but something about this does feel terribly intuitive. “How old are you?”

“First, copycat. Second, forty. Where’d you go to school?”

Forty _. Forty._ That can’t be right. “Tiny-ass private college out in the northeast,” Barnes reflexively replies. “Majored in criminal justice. Minor in physics.” _Forty._ Barnes takes a closer look. There, sure enough, a pair of crow’s feet beneath the stage makeup. Slight laugh lines that deepen as Wilson puffs away. A sliver of gray at each of his temples. _Okay. Okay._ Barnes tries with all his might to squelch the word _foxy_ from his traitor skull.

“Physics,” Wilson repeats through a slight grin. Not slight enough.

“You know what’s physics?” Barnes glares his way. “Ballistics.”

“Touché." To his mild surprise, Wilson's crooked half-smile looks close to genuine. Something warm glimmers behind his glasses. "You really knew that long ago you wanted to be a superhero?”

 _What teenager doesn’t want to be a superhero?_ But Barnes can stick to his lines like a professional. Watch. “I always knew taking HYDRA down would be my life’s work. I made the most I could of the different schools’ resources. Graduating just meant I had more free time to, uh.” _Graduating_  is not a good word, he needs to remember from now on. “Pursue the case.”

“Damn. How'd you fit friends into all that?” Wilson leans further back against the bench. “Any college buddies here tonight? Or just Rogers?”

This one he’d prepared for. “Always been more of a loner. Ever since—” He shakes his head, mostly to scatter that flash of red. “I started the investigation while I was still in high school. Any free time I had—everything else was just—“ Fuck, he’d combined two lines. _Slow down._ “Felt like an obstacle. Anything outside of that would just get in the way. Think the only reason I got along with Steve was 'cause his schedule's so packed."

Wilson nods, not immediately responding. _He must think I’m some kind of space alien._ Actually, Barnes thinks, that would make for a much nicer cover story. What Barnes would give to be a space alien. Acceptably inhuman.

“Guess it makes it easier,” Wilson eventually murmurs after taking another drag. “Not having anybody to worry about. It’s all you. For better or worse.”

“Exactly.” Okay, maybe he does have a shot at coming across as normal. Now if he could just keep it up for, oh, however many years—

“Sounds lonely, though.”

Barnes hates that word, a moan pinned between desperate tongue flicks. He's always hated it. “You can’t miss what you never had.” How many times had he repeated that sentence in the mirror? A hundred? Two hundred?

Only, now, in front of a real person, it sounds canned as hell. Sounds as fake as it feels.

“No friends, not in middle school? Dunno how you made it out.” Wilson plops one hand on his stomach. “Who’d you talk with, about the whole—?” He waves his other hand irately, sending up smoke in unfolding zig-zags. _The incident._ “Nobody your age?”

“Actually,” Barnes replies, feeling himself brighten up a tad, “that’s where the President came in. President Pierce. He, uh.” _He saved me._ “He got me counseling, made sure I kept my grades up. He kept me normal.” Relatively speaking. “I wouldn’t be here today without him. After all he did—” He swallows, feeling his lips widen into a grin. “I promised him I’d return the favor. So I enrolled in the Academy.”

Wilson's eyes are now unreadable behind those red lenses. “You didn’t think nonstop filming and promo'd get in the way of your hunt?”

“I was taking twenty-one hour semesters at the Academy,” Barnes retorts. “This just lets me delegate the fact-finding. By going public with it, I have that many more feelers out there. I already have access to some of the best feed processors on the planet.” He has a thought. “D’you know anything about them? HYDRA?”

Wilson’s mouth twists for a moment, until he shakes his head. “No more than anybody else, probably. Rogue Nazi science unit that scattered after V-Day. Installed themselves in the criminal underworld in the fifties. And now…” He spits over the railing and takes another drag.

“They work in the shadows,” Barnes finishes for him. “Spreading hatred. Arming terrorists.” _Systematically wiping out their opposition_. Only, that last clause clings to his throat, its venomous barbs rendering his voice a low croak. "Dispatching assassins."

“Making my job even more annoying.” Wilson crushes his dead cigarette into the ashtray. “Full disclosure—I think it was fucking suicidal of you to declare war on them like that. Don’t get me wrong, you looked damn good doing it. But, like. How d’you know your house isn't about to get blown up…?”

 _Damn good damn good damn good—_ “If they can figure out where I live,” Barnes lets himself laugh, “then I deserve to get blown up.” _He said I looked damn good he said that I’m not dreaming he said—_

“Now we’re talking.” Wilson looks right at him for the first time since their collective unmasking, his brows pinched behind his frames. “You live off the grid? You got an actual alias somewhere?”

He can be honest. "Pierce took care of it."

Wilson blinks, once, twice. "The hell’s that mean?"

Barnes grins. "He has even tighter law enforcement connections than I do. There aren’t any recent photos of me out of costume, and I don't have a web presence connected to my real name. So, uh. Not a lot to worry about." Right?

"Okay, I get it, you got your ass covered." Wilson shifts in his seat. "So. You been at this for a while. Any leads?"

"One." He can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye, the man may as well be standing before him right now, on this balcony. “I know exactly what their murderer looked like. Got a clear view of him. Profile, frontal, all of it. And he had a tattoo on his hand.” Barnes taps the back of his own left hand. His pulse has shot up—he can feel his heart thrumming in his chest— “HYDRA’s sigil. A skull with tentacles.”

“The only group with a worse gimmick than any of ours.” Wilson snorts. “Guess even real-life villains like to keep their branding cohesive.”

“How…” Bad bad bad ow his chest hurts. _Fuck—_ change subject— "...how come you’ve stuck around for so long if you hate the job?” He hadn’t missed Wilson’s sarcastic comments to Pepper that afternoon. _Focus_. There. Eurgh.

“I don’t hate it,” Wilson immediately snaps. “I don’t—I don’t hate the key function of it. But it’s like any other job, y’know?" He shrugs. "Like, sure, maybe somebody’s workflow doesn’t gel with yours, or you work in legal and always gotta butt heads with marketing, but—”

"You're not gonna convince me it's like any other job." Barnes reaches over Wilson to put out his own dead cigarette, careful to avoid his solar plexus. _Wonder if he's still bandaged up._ NEXT heal more rapidly than the average human, but not instantly. Rarely within a day. "How many people get shot with energy beams on the daily?"

"Hey, I don't get hit every episode. Gimme some credit." Wilson elbows him. Not hard. "It's not too different from when I was on active duty, really. Always being on call, the workouts, the paperwork, getting shot at." He chuckles. "All that good stuff. Nah, all that changed was the location, and, uh." His laugh here is less convincing. "Better food. Softer, uh. Softer beds."

Barnes absolutely does not picture Sam Wilson sprawled across a soft bed. No he does not. "Right."

"And it's a job that's gotta be done. You know?" Wilson's expression grows grave. "As long as superpowered freaks are running around, endangering kids—as long as they’re too much for the police to handle—then I’m not going anywhere.” He stomps his foot on the bench for emphasis.

Barnes would readily point out the Saturday morning cartoon optimism of that shit— _if_ his own life story weren’t literally, irreversibly, mortifyingly scripted _._ “Sure.”

Wilson frowns. “I mean it.”

“I said, sure. I was agreeing with you.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was. I was agreeing with—”

“And I just agreed with you. I said uh huh, which is an affirm—”

“Just—just shut the f—” With that, Barnes is doubled over in gasping laughter.

He’s not sure whether Wilson had begun cracking up before him or right after. Maybe they’d both started at the same time. How disgustingly fitting. He’d puke if his stomach weren’t currently tensed up within an inch of its life.

Something had unstopped within him, had burst loose with no warning. Sam Wilson had sliced open an aching blister Barnes didn’t even know he’d had. _This guy—_

But now that he’s thinking about it, Barnes had perhaps been hoping the Falcon would be—that Wilson would be some kind of punch-clocker. Just hanging on as long as he could stand it for that sweet hazard pay. Statistically, there had to be somebody at MARVEL LIVE solely in it for the salary. Wilson is also one of the closest to the average retirement age. Even NEXT prove to slow and weaken over time, and no one is immortal. This Barnes knows above all else.

No, Wilson’s corny monologue had instead contained within it an undeniable grain of truth.

And corroborating it was the stunt he'd pulled that afternoon. Barnes has in his time become a big fan of all things corroborating. Even now, he can’t shake that mental image of the Falcon diving beneath Chopper 2 to take Reinhardt’s blast. Of him bleeding into the grass, telling Pepper he's fine _._

 _Yeurgh_ —that pain in his chest again. He needs to schedule a medical checkup, stat. Probably exacerbated by all this—all this fucking laughter, like he’s eight again. _What the hell's happening to me?!_

In time their gales subside. Wilson’s begun clutching his stomach with his free hand. After glancing Barnes’ way, he rolls his eyes and feigns a gag. “Fuck it. C’mere.”

In Barnes’ head, he’s already—he’s there, wherever that is. Here. He’s pressing his knee even more firmly against Wilson’s, is draping his good hand over the man’s shoulder, pressing his mouth to that gleaming neck, all agonizingly within the bounds of his own imagination. He’s losing it. “Hm?”

Wilson leans forward, not pushing, not pressing. Wait, then this is really happening. In real life. It’s— “We need to get this shit out of our systems,” Wilson slowly replies, “now, or Pepper’s gonna make it happen on camera.”

Well now. "Yeah?" Barnes doesn't bother suppressing his smirk. "You wanna fight me or fuck me?"

Wilson opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, those gorgeous lips pursed in hesitation.

Shit. _Was that too forward? Did I—_ fuck, it had been too much, hadn't it—? Barnes and his big fucking—

"Both," Wilson replies. It's an admission, Barnes can tell, emitted so lowly Barnes had scarcely heard it. "So... you pick which."

 _My God._ At once Barnes feels himself untensing, letting loose the aching sigh he had scarcely noticed building within him. After searching for words and finding nothing useful, he leans forward, leaving only a whisper-thin space between them.

This close, he can pick up what Wilson had last been drinking through the latent cigarette smoke—bourbon, stinging and sweet at once—and Wilson closes in, those long-lashed eyes flickering gently shut.

Time stops.

Barnes resists the urge to pinch himself as Wilson cinches the space between them, brushing his lips against Barnes', just once, testing. The unfamiliar rush of sensation against his mouth sends his heart rate skyrocketing. Wilson gently tugs on his lower lip before lifting one hand to cup his jaw. A pleasured groan resounds in the man's throat, the vibrations traveling directly through the two of them until Barnes feels it rumbling in his own bones. Again that airy space around Barnes’ back tingles. What he’d give to—what he’d—he wants—

A pleasant dizziness subsumes Barnes. Not, for once, the type threatening with gut-clenching half-familiarity. This type he’s able to welcome wholeheartedly into his nerves. He’d implore it to stay a while. He could get used to this. Maybe, just maybe, he could grow used to Sam Wilson. This he thinks while kissing the corner of the man’s mouth, tasting the salt of his skin and the acrid burn of smoke and not utterly hating any of it. Far be it for him to admit what else he's thinking.

Instead he matches Wilson’s motions, doing as he does. That seems—he’s got no clue what reasonable or sensible folks do in these situations, making out with someone he’d met a few hours ago, but—but—okay, his head is spinning. He tugs his mouth away from Wilson’s for a breath of air, then just as quickly dives back in, planting fevered kisses along the man’s jawline and down his neck until—is Wilson _swooning?_ Is that a thing that exists outside of movies? Oh, Jesus, he’s—

“Fuck.” Wilson pulls away, bracing his thumb against Barnes’ lower lip. “Hang on, I—”

 _Shit. Shit._ Had he messed up? Moved too fast? Too far—? “You ‘kay?” His own voice feels gravelly in his throat, just this side of breaking.

“Yeah. Uh.” Wilson squints, still breathing heavily. “Just—this—this changes nothing. So we’re clear.”

A tinge of that familiar vitriol returns in kind, scuttling like sparks down Barnes’ circuits and veins. “Right.” Why would it? “Like you said, just—getting it out of—”

“This changes nothing between us,” Wilson repeats, his mouth twitching. “Don’t think that I’m—that I have the, uh, the time or the energy for, uh—”

“Same.” Barnes gives a brusque nod. It’s not like he—like he’s into—like— “This is it. Nothing else.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson closes his mouth, his throat quivering. “That’s all.”

“Okay.” Barnes clears his throat. “So… five more minutes?”

Without another word Wilson closes back in, now cupping Barnes’ jaw in both hands. His thumbs press into the hollows of Barnes’ cheeks, keeping his jaw pried open and sending a luscious heat cascading into his chest. Barnes feels the silky wet press of a tongue against his, and bites back a moan— _God—_ this is—whatever it is, he’s—his hands begin to roam as though with minds of their own. Wilson’s in turn press into the back of his neck, wandering carefully beneath that damned shirt collar.

 _Pull it off_ , Barnes wants to beg him— _just rip it off—please—_ he’d form the words if his mouth weren’t otherwise, ehm, preoccupied. He can sense Wilson’s weight shift now, closer, closer and—and he’s—Wilson’s leg moves and suddenly he’s straddling _(!)_ Barnes, whose hands instinctively begin to move south. He maps Wilson’s shoulder blades and spine, digging his fingertips into the litany of knots in the man’s back, relishing in the man’s weight on his lap.  _Wilson really does have enough to go around._ Fucking hell.

Wilson moans into his mouth with each circling press, grinding his hips down. Barnes carefully trails his own touch downward, straining his senses to pick up on any stiffening, for the slightest jolt of unease—but Wilson instead splutters with laughter as Barnes cups his backside, squeezing him tight. He withdraws his own fingertips only to splay them over Barnes’ pecs. It takes everything in his power not to whine like an animal as his cock heaves without warning. Had anyone, anyone touched him like this in his life? Not in memory.

But with that warm hand over his heart, two sets of pulsing fingers massaging him, unbuttoning his dress shirt—yes— _yes—_ the heat has long been building; any second, now, and he’s going to have to move. He’s got to move, or—

_SCREESCREESCREESCREE—_

_YEOW._ Barnes isn’t sure which hurts worse, the tongue or his eardrums. A siren’s going off, a wailing screech cruelly close to their position. He rips his mouth away from Wilson’s. “You bit my tongue!”

That Wilson can hear him over the shrieking din can only be due to his NEXT. “Sorry! Jeez!” He scowls at the flashing blue lights over the door and in one clutching motion silences the siren. “Fire alarm? Scared the shit outta me.”

Were Barnes an innocent third party, watching this shit go down from a safe distance? He’d be cracking the hell up, pounding one fist onto his armrest. As it is, he shoves Wilson off his lap and springs to his feet. “No way it’s a drill. Not tonight.” He's already rebuttoned his shirt. Now, if his crotch would just behave—

Wilson harrumphs and straightens out his suit. “Pep,” he calls into his wristcomm, “what happened?”

“Where are you?” Pepper’s voice shrieks inline. “Someone just called in with a bomb threat. Anybody got sights on Barnes? I need the both of you to feel around for any charges.”

“He’s with me,” Wilson grumbles, heading for the door. Barnes disables the lock in time for him to reach the handle. “We’re on a second-floor exterior balcony.”

“Perfect. I have the rest of the Heroes and a few volunteers on evac. You two are our bomb detail. I’m heading up now to rendezvous. Hold your position—”

“Are you nuts?” Wilson stops in his tracks, his hand frozen over the door handle. “You've gotta clear the area. Get to safety and let us take care of—”

“Alex will crucify me if I don’t film every second of you two. It’s your first night of working together! Our post-season check-ins aren’t gonna write themselves.” A consummate professional, huh. Barnes has to hand it to her.

Wilson clasps his forehead. “Pepper. It’s one thing if a Hero goes down on the job. But if that bomb goes off, and we lose you? Then Marvel Live is finished. No one else has a handle on everything the way you do. We don't have another good producer—"

"Don't be like that. MJ or Darcy are always—"

"Please." Wilson's voice sounds suspiciously wet. "I’m begging you, Pep, please get to safety. Do it for me.”

Barnes swallows his grin as Wilson’s last few words come out faltering and quiet. _He means it_. Even if his words are patently untrue. Surely someone on the corporate food chain is right beneath her, ready to take over in a worst-case scenario. Right?

…Does Wilson genuinely care this much about Pepper Potts? Or is it a situational thing? Again he wonders how far back they go.

“Hmph. Between you, Tony and Happy, I don’t know if—hm? Oh, I hate to—well, if—” Breathy laughter, and incoherent conversation from her end of the line. “Alright! Fine. Okay. Here’s the plan. We made sure your wingpack is secured back in the restricted suite. In case of emergency.”

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?” Wilson replies, his face slowly brightening.

“Set your HUD live feed to the address I’m sending you now,” Pepper orders. “James? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Barnes reflexively straightens his back. At least his situation is now, erm, presentable. He does not want to imagine the fine for going on air visibly erect, much less how the President would take it. Shit, lesser people would get fired for— _Okay, that did it._

“Think battlefield documentary in terms of dialogue. Don’t worry about sounding too pedestrian. Wilson, I’m anticipating some serious shaky-cam, but you’ll just have to do your best. Brief the viewers on the situation, talk about your NEXT powers, and we can feed you some facts about the Plaza if finding the thing takes too long. But,” and here her voice lowers into a growl, “don’t take too long.”

“Copy that.” Wilson taps his red-lensed shades once and kicks open the door.

The ballroom beneath them is a tumultuous sea of shrieking faces and waving arms. Chaos in black tie. The hotel’s security team has cleared the exit routes, but Barnes doesn’t want to imagine the traffic jam outside. If even a tenth of the rooms above them are occupied, the evac alone would merit a four-alarm SBFD detail. One they certainly won’t have time for, should they need it.

Wilson makes a rolling motion to Barnes. _Three_ , he mouths, _two—one—_ “Falcon here, bringing y’all live to the scene of either a prison-worthy prank or a potential disaster. Mister Barnes, what’s your lightning-hot take on this situation?”

“Uh.” Asshole. Barnes works his jaw and activates his NEXT. The blank walls around him spring to life: electric lines galore, switchboards and sockets and endless ductwork, but no bomb. “I'm not picking up anything from here.” Not a particularly sexy answer. Still, he knows his glow is camera-friendly enough. “How good’s your range?”

“Forty yards for an open circuit,” Wilson replies as they head for the stairwell. “If we’re talking a stick of TNT on a live timer, closer to sixty. But something like a C4 detonator?” He frowns. “Quarter mile.”

 _Same range as me._ All business, huh. Barnes can scarcely believe this is the same guy whose tongue he’d been sucking ninety seconds ago. In a merciful world, he could pinch himself and wake up, panting, from this bonkers hybrid wet dream-nightmare. “Want to split up?”

By how Wilson’s mouth twists, Pepper must have threatened him inline with power tool. “Perish the thought. Partners gotta stick together, y’know?”

Barnes knows nothing. “Then let’s start at the basement and work our way up.”

They hop over the stairwell railing, landing some forty feet below on cold concrete. Baby stuff, Barnes could totally inform the viewers. Pepper wants talking points? He’s got those. Shit, he could bring up his ’67 Phoenix Tower jump for comparison. Like how he could bring up his intimate knowledge of Sam Wilson’s gnarled back muscles, or how the inside of Howard Stark’s skull had once looked. “See a fire escape map anywhere?”

Wilson slowly turns his head and then taps his glasses, likely to zoom in on the placard hanging in the elevator bank. “Bingo. Let’s head up. Say, I wonder how many of our viewers can guess the exact height of the Plaza Hotel? Tweet your guesses now to Marvel Live with the hashtag, uh—hashtag _PlazaBombThreat_.”

Nothing on this floor, either. “Commercial break?”

Wilson nods, wiping his brow. “And none too soon. C’mon.”

Once the Falcon's wingpack is on, they hit the stairwell. Barnes starts grumbling a third of the way up; whatever this stupid building’s actual height is, it’s _too damn tall._

* * *

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* * *

Sam could have told that prick Barnes from the get-go that the bomb would be on the top fucking floor. Call it intuition, call it professional wisdom, call it the stupidest most basic trope in all of action-adventure media— “Finally. Pep, we got a lock.”

After zooming in on the bomb, Sam makes sure to pan around the rest of the space—a presidential suite penthouse, with brass chandeliers and a grand pyramid skylight. Overhead, the neon glow of the surrounding skyscrapers and the beams of circling helicopters eclipse the glittering night sky.

“Can you confirm that?” Pepper asks inline. “What kind?”

“Gel explosive,” Sam replies. He can sense it in there easily enough, that dizzying load of potential energy. “A fat one. Not a blockbuster, but could still put a big dent in the building.” He ritually thumbs the straps of his wingpack. Even in non-airborne situations like this one, he'd feel naked without it.

“It's on a timer,” Barnes adds as he straightens up. "Kind of. Not a digital one, but—"

“A nice timer?” Pepper’s voice falters under the weight of her prayer.

“Is...about six minutes nice?” Sam sighs and gives the thing another feel. No homecooked IED, this. It’s military-grade, if decades old—second World War, Sam can hazard. He uses his NEXT to flip on the room’s overhead lights, rendering the image unmistakable on the live footage.

Barnes’ hands curl into fists at the sight of the red, red logo he’d just described. “Should've known.”

 _You made it personal_ , Sam could chide. _Reap what you sow, Buckles._ Instead he unclenches his own fists and focuses on the bomb’s trigger mechanism. But it’s tough to do that while having to give semi-coherent commentary. “So, uh, we’re checking this thing out now,” he narrates after unmuting his HUD mic. “Either HYDRA’s trying to make a statement, or, uh, somebody’s trying to frame ‘em?”

At least it elicits a snort from Barnes. His fingers loosen ever so slightly as he crouches next to the bomb. “We gotta act fast.”

“Mister Barnes has volunteered for disposal,” Sam translates for accessibility. “We still recommend getting as far away from the Plaza Hotel as you can. Everyone in Bloc D, we ask you conserve cell tower bandwidth for emergency transmissions.”

What he doesn’t announce is the big-ass problem sitting inside that wad of gel. Namely, a pencil detonator, one whose metal casing has already been dented as though crushed underfoot.

Sam can faintly detect the shattered inner phial; that means a mouthful of cupric chloride has already begun to dissolve the contraption's one wire. The brittle, hair-thin lead alloy wire. The one barely holding back the striker.

There's no electricity inside the thing. Sam can look, but not touch, save only to snap that wire ahead of schedule. Not an option.

“Fuck,” Barnes curses under his breath a few agonizing minutes later. Likely well after he’d exhausted all his Academy cheat sheets. “Any, uh. Any advice?”

“Can you jam the percussion cap?” Sam asks, even though he can already guess the answer. Maybe they'd luck out, and Barnes' NEXT is stronger than his...? “Feels like an alloy to me. Not quite metallic enough to mess with.”

“Fuck.” With a growl, Barnes leaps back onto his feet and begins to pace. _He can't budge it, either._ Well, fuck. “Think we could manipulate the wire somehow? Preserve it from getting eaten up?” They both know those are no-gos. Barnes has to be spewing stuff out for the sake of watchability to buy them time. Hell alone knows what Christine's come up with to pad their few dictated audio segments.

The trigger's faint fizzing is doing nothing to help ease any of the tension. Sam feels a bead of sweat drip down his temple as he mutes his live-air mic. “Pep, how’s evac looking?”

“Not as good as I'd like. Have you two fixed that thing yet?”

“Working on it. It’s like this was—” Oh, perish this thought of all fucking thoughts— “Like whoever built it knew that we'd be the ones looking at it. None of the usual workarounds are gonna—”

“Are you serious?! How much time is left?”

Under three minutes, give or take. Sam feels his stomach somersault. “Everyone in this Bloc's gotta get below level five, Pepper. Tell the cops to get people off the streets.”

“Sam, James, _do not_ let that thing blow—”

Sam mutes her line. No amount of yelling in his ear is gonna get this fixed.

But Barnes suddenly crosses his arms. “Get out of here,” he hisses as though giving an order. He's looking away from Sam, away from his HUD-cam. “Now. I’m just—I’m gonna—” He makes to pick up the bomb, but Sam grabs his shoulder, holding him back.

“Like hell you are.” Not on his watch. “You wanna sacrifice your ass? Fine, but do so when it's worth something. Blow this thing early and thousands of people'll go with you. _Do you understand?”_

"I could absorb the worst of it," Barnes croaks. "I—I wouldn't make it, but if you leave now, you could—"

“Hell no." Sam bites back a gale of ugly, ugly laughter. "You got your whole life ahead of you. Listen to yourself—you haven’t even started your damn career yet. If anybody’s leaving right now, Bucky Barnes, it’s—”

"My name," Barnes rasps, "is James Buchanan Barnes." At long last he's looking Sam dead in the eye. "And I’m not going anywhere without you." His voice breaks on that last word, rendering the next ones a faint whisper. “Are we partners or not?”

Fucking hell. Sam takes a deep breath, not believing his ears. In the off chance they somehow make it out of this shit, he knows, he  _knows_ that line will so come back to haunt him someday. Probably sooner than he'd like.

“We are," he replies. "So... let’s get this done.”

Thank God he had moved Rila, is all Sam can think now. _Thank all that is holy_. If she had been here tonight—if she had been anywhere near here—if she’d—if he hadn’t—

“We’re out of time,” Barnes moans as the clock hits two minutes. "I don't know—I don't know how else to mess with that thing."

"Hey." Sam tightens his grip on Barnes' shoulder. “Don’t give up hope."

“Hope?!" Barnes gapes incredulously at Sam, his mouth twitching with crazed smiles. "Fuck hope. We need a plan. We need to do something, not just stand around like a pair of useless—”

“You gotta stay calm, man.” Sam purposefully aims the camera away from Barnes, focusing back on the bomb. _You can let ‘em see you sweat,_ he so wants to tell him, _but not freak. You gotta be the role model now._ And so Sam goes.

He withdraws his hand and begins to pace around the bomb, sniffing out the grade of its metal casing—suspiciously good. Alarmingly good. High-quality steel of this thickness is, in his experience, relatively lightweight. _I could just carry that thing out of—_ out of here.

Boom.

“Say…” Sam brings himself to look right at Barnes, whose eyes are now bloodshot as hell and close to flooding over. They have just over a minute, by his judgment. “How good’s that throwing arm of yours?”

Barnes glances to his left arm. “P-pretty good.” Half a moment later and it clicks. Nothing dramatic; just a flaring of nostrils, the setting of that squared jaw. He pulls a pistol from inside his jacket and flips the safety. "Up, yeah?"

 _Atta boy._ Sam could kiss his stubbly cheek. He settles for a confident nod. “Up.”

Sam extends his wings as Barnes shoots out one of the skylight panels. The sounds of the city flood the room at once: sirens, chopper blades, vicious winds, and, somehow, the hubbub of voices, even this far up.  Sam remembers just in time to unmute his comm. “Pepper, get as many cameras as you can pointing high over the Plaza. We're doing a controlled-det. Put out a warning on levels four and five for any falling debris.”

“What? Okay. On it now. And—good luck, you two.”

"Copy that."

Barnes gingerly picks up the bomb, and Sam wraps his arms around Barnes’ back and behind his thighs, just like how he'd so often held Rila while standing in line at the post office.

Okay, so Barnes isn't remotely toddler-sized. But there's something satisfying nonetheless about his mass in Sam's arms, in his weight, in his heat soaking into Sam's front, even with that bomb fizzing away inches from his ear. "C'you throw alright like this?"

"Yeah." Barnes pointedly grips the thing in just his metal hand. His flesh arm reaches behind Sam’s neck, resting just over the top of his wingpack. "Ready when you are."

Fifteen seconds on the clock. Up Sam flies.

The icy air burns and just as soon numbs his face as they ascend. Barnes' heartbeat nearly outbooms the drumline of helicopter blades. That metal arm is a symphony of coiling, tensing, preparing for launch. The choppers had better have a great view of them, Sam thinks, because the only thing his HUD is picking up is a gorgeous smattering of stars.

Sam's reached his top speed now—velocity is everything—ten seconds before that wire snaps—

"Throw now!"

Up the bomb sails, flung at near-light speed for all Sam can tell.  _Barnes wasn't kidding about the arm._  

And now they're falling, away, away, plummeting back down to earth— _three—two_ —Barnes is tucking Sam's head against his chest— _one_ —zero—he's off by one—two—

_BOOM._

It’s too beautiful, Sam thinks as he falls. Like a firework ringing in the new year.

“Whoa!” Barnes clamps onto him with all limbs as they zoom back down to the hotel.

"Easy. I got you." Sam can’t pretend he’s not a little amused. Once they’ve made it back through the same broken skylight, Sam lands with a flourish of folding wings and throws a fond look Barnes’ way. “You know what? I think I like carrying more than being carried.”

Barnes’ face goes purple and he covers Sam’s glasses with his flesh hand. “C’mon—not on air—”

“Pfft, relax. Pepper cut my feed right after the deton—wuh—” Sam yanks his head back, but to his surprise, his glasses come away in Barnes’ hand.

There it is again, that warm wave of nostalgia. Had Riley ever pulled his glasses off so? Sam can’t say. It’s something else sending that luscious heat coursing through his veins, he’s sure—the satisfying pressure against his temples, coaxing a pleasantly hair-raising reaction down the rest of his scalp—

“You want the magic word?” Barnes asks, those curvaceous lips of his forming a pout.

Sam snorts and drops him. But Barnes lands solidly on his feet. Worse, he holds the sunglasses out for Sam to take back. Sam’s old UC’s voice, deep inside his head, is telling him _that’s bait_.

“Nice work, you two,” Pepper calls over the comm, nearly startling the skeleton out of Sam’s body. _Yeek._ “Rendezvous downstairs in five for debrief and postshow interviews. We have fresh suits and makeup ready for you.”

“There wasn’t even supposed to be a show tonight,” Sam laments aloud.

“There’s always a show,” Pepper tells him for approximately the billionth time in his career. “We were just lucky enough to get to air tonight’s, all thanks to you two! Star Media’s already agreed to pay for the window, by the way.”

“Swell.” Barnes plants one hand on his hip. “See you down there, Miss Potts.”

 _“Pepper_ ,” chides Pepper. “One of these days I’ll get through to him. Now, chop chop.”

The line goes dead. Sam kneads his eyeballs. Postshow interviews? He’d only make it to Luke’s by three if he borrowed his wingpack—

“Do you not want these back?” Barnes is still holding his sunglasses. “Then again, guess red’s my color now.”

“Hey!” Sam makes to snatch them back, but of course, of _course_ Barnes yanks them away just in time. He is so not in the mood for—

"Kidding. But..." Barnes slowly exhales. "Wilson. I'm—I’m sorry about panicking earlier. When I couldn’t defuse that thing. I didn't know what to do.”

Huh. Not quite the taunt he’d been expecting. “Hey, don’t sweat it—”

“You heard Miss Potts. She’s gonna tell everyone that both of us got this done. But...” Barnes casts his gaze downward like an admonished schoolboy. “You were the one who really saved the day. Coming up with a plan, keeping cool under pressure. All that." He turns bodily away, likely to disguise the quivering of that throat. _Tough luck, Bucko._

Sam frantically digs around in his head for an appropriate response. Something mentor-y. Something wise. Something inspirational. "Give yourself some credit. Not everyone gets stuck with a bomb threat on day one—"

Barnes freezes. "Are you...patronizing me?"

"Of course not." Sam frankly does not know why he's arguing. Maybe it's just the principle of the matter.

"Just admit it. I was useless here."

"You threw that bomb further up than I could've."

"But you still could've thrown it yourself. I was useless here. Say it."

"You were useless here," Sam spits back, planting his hands on his hips. "Happy now? Can I have my glasses back?"

"You didn't mean it." Barnes huffs, looking the sunglasses over. Still, his face softens. "Whatever. So, um, now that I have your attention..."

Sam’s never going to get those damn glasses back. “What?”

Now Barnes looks his way, those pretty eyes nearly making direct contact. Nearly. “I was in full agreement with you earlier. With, uh, with what you said, while we were, uh—" _Oh._ Oh. Eurgh. "So, like. That was it. No more.” His eyes flicker back and forth across Sam's face, never quite reaching his.

Flickering in disbelief, Sam wonders, or is that his own wishful thinking...? “Right.” He clears his throat. “We, uh, we gotta keep it professional. Like I said.”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

"Okay."

"Sure."

A long, sweaty beat passes before they both speak at once.

“You know, we never got to finish—”

“I don’t think five minutes actually—”

 _What have I done_ , Sam thinks as Barnes closes in yet again. As that mismatched pair of arms envelopes his body, as he lifts his own hands to Barnes’ parting jaw.

But what strikes him now is a question: when was the last time he’d gotten to experience this kind of luxury? Of getting to turn his brain off, even for just five minutes? Of hitting the snooze button on—on this dour cage that had become his life? Sam cannot say.

All the noise of the city fades away as Sam’s attention grows wholly ensnared by the planes of Barnes’ face, his scent, his heat. Something nearly medicinal coats Barnes’ tongue, if Sam’s not mistaken, something he’d earlier mistaken for the flush of nicotine. He racks his head for what it could be, until his very ability to recall threatens to drown in the waves of sensation racking his—well, his—everywhere Barnes is—

 “Break up—” Barnes' tongue flicks against his, his words more texture than sound in Sam's mouth— “when—when she—” Oh, _hell_ , that feels good, whatever it is—a thumb rubbing into the base of his spine— “when she messages—”

“G' plan.” Sam switches up to planting slow kisses along Barnes' jawline, down his neck, over his collarbone. He idly wonders how that seam of skin and machine a few inches away would feel beneath his tongue. How Barnes would react if he delved that far in. How he'd feel.

Five more minutes, Sam’s ass. He could spend an eternity like this, easy, with his face buried in the crook of this jerkass rookie’s thick, pulsing neck. Bucky's neck.

Which is why Pepper’s furious string of texts interrupts them _way too fucking soon._

“’S get this shit over with,” he mutters after somehow managing to pull away. “Oh, and—if you leave visible bruising on me? Anything I can’t hide with stage makeup?” He snatches his sunglasses back from Barnes’ limp hand and slides them on with a dashing smile. “I’m gonna fucking bury you.”

Barnes snorts as they make for the stairwell. “Likewise, partner.”

They have a a deal.

* * *

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* * *

By the time Sam reaches Luke’s, his comm reads at 03:22:41. It's bad enough that T'Challa and Rhodes have been bombarding his phone nonstop, imbuing him with the worst FOMO he'd felt in literal years. But were he still on active duty, his UC would have advised not to bother showing up at all.

Well, Sam reasons as he pushes the back door open, Fury isn't his commander. Not anymore.

Two task bulbs hang low over the freshly scrubbed bartop, casting the one occupied booth into dramatic half-shadow. The only other lights in the vicinity wink at him from the two bottle cases and the roped-off slot machines. All else is murky black.

Fury's swapped his iconic eyepatch out for glasses, a pair with the right lens opaqued. But Sam would know that Jacksonian jawline anywhere. Opposite him, Detective Mercedes Knight sits, then stands, then sprints his way.

“Sam. Good grief!” She throws her arms around him before drawing away to look him over. Her springy curls fall nearly to the shoulder-cutouts of her purple top, one baring a solid sheen of rose gold.  “What the hell happened back there? Are you hurt? That bomb—”

“Easy, Mercedes,” warns a cool baritone from behind the bar. Luke Cage is a pair of gleaming eyes in the dark. Sam can only see a tight yellow tee, faded jeans and that nigh-immortal pair of Timbs in his mind’s eye. “Glad you’re still at it, brother.”

“Hey, man. I made it out fine, Misty." He attempts a grin. "How'd the footage look?”

"You're drunk," Luke sighs, hanging his head low over the bar. "Shoulda known."

“Am not!” He’d only had, what, five drinks? Six? Nothing near his usual—

"Footage my ass. Do not even start with me, Samuel. Not tonight. If anything'd happened to you? If I'd had to be the one to tell—?" Misty cuts herself off with a slow shake of the head. _I'd be the last one of us standing_ , she doesn't have to say.  _We can't do that to her._ Sam above all cannot.

So Sam hugs her. He frankly doesn't know what else he could do. How else do you assure someone standing in front of you that you are very much alive? "We had it handled, Misty. Probably looked more dramatic than it really was."

"Oh, whatever." She squeezes him tight, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, before abruptly pulling away to drag him over to the booth. "And I take it the bomber hasn't been ID'd yet."

"Nope. S'why I'm glad I'm here now. With you all." After collapsing into the too-low seat, Sam thinks of asking for something strong and then bites his tongue. “Nick. What—what happened?”

“What didn’t.” Fury laughs once, joylessly. “No... to the best of my knowledge, I tripped a wire somewhere. Someone was using countersurveillance protocol I wasn't prepared to deal with.”

“Which someone was that?” Misty beckons Luke over. “And where’s Ran at?”

“Tibetan Wonder's outside doing his thing.” Luke slides in next to her. “Misty just got here,” he explains to Sam with a deferential glance her way. “Figured we could all get caught up at the same time.”

“Gotcha.” Claire must still be at work, Sam guesses. He leans back in his seat and takes a heavy breath. “I liked Misty's question. Who muscled you out, Nick?”

“Wasn’t so much muscling as advising,” Fury replies, his voice low. “Whoever caught me digging either knows me—and respects me enough to give me a head start—or...” He wrinkles his nose. “...more likely, has sights on me still. Must think I'll lead ‘em to a bigger fish.”

A bigger fish than Nicholas J. Fury, CEO of one of the planet's top private intelligence brokerages. Now ex-CEO.

Sam doubts he’ll get any sleep tonight. “They caught you snooping around something big enough to warrant shutting down a Hero sponsor.” A presenting one, no less.

Fury gives a terse nod. “Big enough to warrant cutting me out of my support system. But what surprised me was their lack of interest in you, Sam. Even if I'd had your personal info on file, they never pressed me for it. Not once."  _What._  "And they made no attempt to bargain for the Falcon’s rights. Nor any monetary gain. No stock options. Nothing." His eyelid falls half-closed as though in disappointment. "Only demanded that Hill and I vacate our offices by sunrise.”

Spooky. Small goddamn wonder Fury's always been so paranoid. Sam can scarcely imagine what other chips this mystery villain could be playing for. “Is Hill safe? How’s she taking this?"

"Like with anything else," Fury chuckles, "she's working on it. Can't tell you where she's bunking now, only that she's attempting to trace the message's source."

 _Figures_. The day Maria Hill takes a vacation is the day Sam retires for good. Speaking of which— "So, how come I didn't get a pink slip? Star Media didn’t wanna throw two retirement ceremonies on the same night?” Luke alone chuckles.

But Fury’s eye meets Sam’s, jarringly sober. “Because I begged Pierce to keep you on. Called in a favor he’s owed me for…” He blinks. “Few decades now.”

“You didn’t.” Sam feels his heart plummet into his gut like a hailstone. The sheer idea of Fury begging the Star Media president for anything, on wasting that big of a favor for anyone, much less for his own raggedy, alcoholic, seventh-place—

“You bet your ass I did," Fury rebukes, grinning as wide as Sam's ever seen. "There’s plenty of people in the game with heart, Wilson, but nobody—and I mean nobody _—_ with half as much as yours. You’re not out there to make a show. You’re there to keep people alive. That whole program needs you, personally, more than they'll ever know.”

Heart, he'd said. Sam needs a drink _now_. “And he really took you up on it? After all these years y’all’ve lost money on me—?”

"Money in the face of a trustworthy soldier is no object." Fury's eye traces his, gleaming in two pinpricks from the task bulbs. "Keeping you in play is worth everything I have, Wilson. It's as I said; you're the best person available for this kind of work."

"There's no putting a price on that," Misty adds, nodding fervently. "What I'd give for one more decent cop on the force."

"I believe it," Sam quickly cuts in. He’s put a moratorium on Misty nudging him toward the SBPD how many times now? "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Alexander Pierce is wise like that, too," Fury continues, "or he wouldn't have taken me up on the offer." His face softens. "Well, he would've had to anyways. But he would've made a much bigger fuss if not."

 _Laugh so you don't cry, Wilson_. "You really fought for me, huh?"

"Fight is right. He was reluctant as hell at first." Fury's eye flashes. "So I made it clear to him that this job was all you had. And that you've been through shit half that roster couldn't even fathom. Your Pakistan tour, your vigilante work…” His wince is apologetic, but he keeps one hand defensively held up. “Losing your man...”

 _He told Pierce about Riley_? Cunning bastard. Still, Sam's not sure whether he wholeheartedly appreciates the move. "No wonder he and Pepper had me improv that shit tonight with—" _Bucky-bear_ springs to mind, tongue and all. "—with Barnes."

"Pierce was the one who suggested partnering you two up. He's not stupid; he'll finesse a ton of revenue out of you yet. But, whatever it takes." Fury rubs the side of his good eyeball. "And, if you're up for it, you'd be our point person inside the system. In case whoever messaged me is still lurking. Or planning to go after other Heroes' sponsors."

A task. Good. Something Sam can chew on, instead of twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the opposition to strike again. "You want me to help investigate your love letter?"

"While on the job?" Misty adds, looking far from impressed. "Like neither of us have enough to worry about already."

Fury sighs. "I only ask that you keep both eyes open, Wilson. You've been in this game long enough. You know how to read the fine print. How to follow the money. And you'll have a better shot at predicting where this Hero business is headed than anyone else here."

Oof. Sam closes his eyes. "Then... that's what you were checking out? Something to do with Marvel Live? Or Heroes?" _Please, no—_ if they’d already knocked Fury out, then how long would the others last? If they managed to compromise the whole operation—if someone’s ID got out—

"Tangentially related, but, maybe. Possibly." Fury and Misty exchange glances. "Likely."

Misty takes over. "We'd been looking into the recent wave of MARVEL LIVE villains. Ones incorrectly deemed NEXT-level. A few popped up this season that weren’t on previous snapshots of the NEXT database." She scowls. "With janky intake paperwork, if there even was any."

"Incorrectly—what, like they weren't actually NEXT?" Sam can't remember the last time he fought a regular, non-powered evildoer. That blue glow wasn't the easiest trait to mimic. "Like who?"

"Not safe to name names," Fury immediately replies. "Can supplement in time."

Misty nods. "Let's call 'em synthetic NEXT. Rather than organic—you know, like us. Changed from the blast. Or passed down genetically from a parent caught the blast, like Ran."

 _Synthetic._ A jolt runs down Sam's spine. "Someone's trying to replicate the blast? To make more of us...?"

"No telling.” Misty sighs. “That’d require cloning tech even SpaceX doesn't have yet. What they are doing—far as we can tell—is taking average people and, eh. Messing with 'em. Steroids, chemical injections. Stuff to make 'em temporarily NEXT-ish."

"Temporarily." Sam snaps his jaw shut. "For how long?"

"A few days at most, but, again, there's no telling. Whoever's behind this could be trying to increase the duration."

"...until it could become permanent," Fury concludes.

Misty nods, leaving the clause to hang in the air like dust, cloying and toxic. Sam tenses up from just thinking about the potential mess resulting from all this. If he inhales the wrong way, once, any time from here on out, then he's—

"Nick," says Luke, whose face had grown stormy. "I think I have a lead for you."

"No kidding." Fury raises an eyebrow. "You bringing up the place I think you're bringing up?"

Luke gives a grim nod. "Anything I tell you would technically be inadmissable, but..."

"That's never stopped us before." Fury's mouth twitches. "Can't believe I hadn't thought of private tanks yet. Been focusing on multinational bio-eng labs. Let me do some preliminary recon and I'll get back to you."

"Dunno how many others'd be like it." Luke's gaze is galaxies away, flung far beyond Sam's line of sight. "Could be a start."

"Could be something." Fury pulls out a burner phone. "Last thing—the three of you need to save this number as something innocuous. Not sure where I'm gonna hunker down long-term, but will let you know once Hill and I pick somewhere out."

"Any housewarming gifts we could get you in the meantime?" Sam asks, keeping his tone pleasant. "Gotta match the curtains to the upholstery, yeah? D'you still got your old blender?"

"Psh." Fury shakes his head. _Good on supplies for now_. "With the wife out of commission, I'll be eating a whole lot of takeout in the near future. But—" He leans back in his seat and slowly exhales. "As with all things, I'll live."

So he'd held onto just enough of his equipment to keep operating. Sam breathes a sigh of relief.

"Hang in there, Wilson. Pierce knows what he’s doing. I’d trust him with my life.”

"I hear you." He can't break it to Fury that trusting Pierce would've gotten his ass flattened this afternoon. That it really had been thanks to Buckaroni that he's here tonight. He chews his tongue while adding Fury's number to his old smartphone, the one that can't sync with his comm.

"How's Rila doing?" Misty asks after Luke and Fury make for the bar. "I know her big science fair's coming up."

"She won it yesterday." Sam beams. "First place, hands down. Got her a big ol' trophy and everything. A while back, she tried describing her project to me—and I got lost, Misty. Something with electromagnetism 'n holograms, I dunno. Amazing stuff." Enough cannot be said of his baby girl's genius. If Sam can just keep her alive long enough, she could turn the whole planet over with whatever she wanted to do. Could flip it inside out. Could single-handedly solve world hunger, if she felt like it. Elon who?

"Right, she told me all about that one. I mean the one—" Misty blinks and then shakes her head. "Nevermind. All confused on my dates. Between Claire's changing shifts and the Masque investigation, it's been like the Twilight Zone up in here."

Sam chuckles. "How's that coming along? Fingered anyone yet?"

Misty heaves an exasperated sigh. "I wish. Been a total dud from day one. Either she's a nobody, or someone in the industry's covering for her." She drums her metallic fingertips irately on the table. "My real question is, how many other unregistered NEXT are out there? It's the opposite problem from what Nick was looking into. Not sure which prospect's more dangerous, false positives or false negatives." She checks her watch. "Now, if it's actually three-thirty, Claire's getting off any second."

"Y'all heading to Isabel's?" One of the few reliable 24-7 diners on Level 2. Sam had put away a few of the lady's legendary pancake stacks in his time.

"Yeah we are." Misty's expression brightens. "Wanna come? I know Claire won't mind. As a matter of fact, you still owe her from when you dropped out last-minute back in February—"

Sam waves her away, wincing. "Next time. Next time. I mean it! Promise."

"Sure, Sam." She shakes her head and stands before whispering in his ear. "Say hey to RiRi for me."

"Yes, ma'am." He watches her bid the others goodbye, with some small part of him begging to follow her. To grab pancakes with her and Claire, to waste the dawn chatting and joking with each other, full and warm. Just like in the old days.

But it won't be the same. There'd be too much empty space in the booth next to Sam. A gap on the table where a fourth plate should be. One less gale of chortling laughter to be shushed by an indignant white lady the next table over.

Sam sighs and leans back in his seat. He can feel one hell of a hangover coming on.

* * *

  **MARVEL LIVE HeroBytes Ep. 694 | April 18, 1977: Falcon Takes On Fans**

 _Codename: Falcon_ _™_. _Top sponsors: SHIELDCorp_ ® _, American Airlines_ ® _and Intel_ ® _. Years on the roster: 7 (Took a 1-season hiatus in '73). NEXT power: Technopath. Voted Champion twice, in back-to-back seasons starting with his debut in ‘70._

Welcome back, Falcon. Ready for some questions drafted by none other than your loving viewers? **Hit me, Pep.**

This one's a long shot, but—alias? **Ha, ha. Next.**

Don't know what they were expecting. Okay, eBook you're reading right now? **In Search of Buddy Bolden by Donald Marquis.**

I hear that’s a good one. Now: least favorite supervillain? **Uh. What's-his-name with the arc whips. And the tats. And the glasses. Something about those glasses, man.** _[Redacted]_ **beatnik.**

Ha. He's got a special place in my heart, too. So, what's your preferred way to decompress between Hero shifts? **Decompress.** **Hmm.** How do you spend your time off? **Uh. Jogging...?**...Just jogging? **I… go on walks. I like walking. I walk around this city when I’m bored, or, uh, can’t sleep.**

That’s... a great way to stay healthy. Say, you’ve got a really a nice holotop. **Thanks. Custom setup, of course.** I don’t doubt that. How’s the newest Intel core processor working for you? **We’re talking straight-up, unparalleled processing power. Zero lag for all my gamers out there.** Zero! **You heard it here first. I know I said my last computer was on steroids, but this baby’s steroids are on steroids. The twelfth-gen iX9 chips are available now at Intel dot com and at Best Buy.**

Sweet. Alright, this last one’s my favorite: what three things would you bring to a desert island? **Easy.** **A big** _[redacted]_ **agave plant, my Rosita Commander Luxus, and my record collection.** A whole collection doesn't count! **What? Then, uh, some swim trunks. No, scratch that. I really only get one record?** One record, Falcon. **Then... the soundtrack to Trouble Man.** Trouble Man? **Trouble Man.**  


End file.
